


Taken

by amproof



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-28
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amproof/pseuds/amproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam attacks Gene in a violent and terrible way. The next morning, he doesn't remember anything, and the Guv isn't about to remind him--or tell him why he thinks Sam needs to spend more time in the boot of the Cortina. Just as Sam thinks the Guv has gone off his rocker, someone he loves dies, his prospect of getting home is practically destroyed, and in 2006 he's getting a visitor no one wants. Oh, and the Guv has started having uncomfortably pleasant dreams of Sam, even as he wonders if his DI is a psychopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Favor Gone Wrong

  
He took him from behind. That was the reason he got the best of Gene, sneaking up in the dark behind him, ramming him into the wall so hard that the Genie saw stars sparkling when his eyes rolled back. He let out a grunt, tried to turn around and get his fists up. He got one in the neck for his efforts. A hand on his hair, and then…head, meet dresser. He dropped to his knees and stayed there, hovering, forehead sticky with sweat and blood.

"I know why you're here," Sam said, and punched him in the mouth.

The expectoration of spit and blood. "I'll take a wager you don't." Gene didn't know how understood he could make himself, what with the broken teeth knocking around in his mouth.

"You're meant to keep me here. Well, you won't do it." He stuck his face in Gene's ear, sneering with his perfect, straight, white, unBritish teeth. "I won't let you." A foot in Gene's side. He caught himself on his arm before he toppled over. Sam hop-kicked and Gene did fall. He rolled up on his knees, legs twitching to hurl himself at Sam. He launched, something guttural ripped from his throat. He landed on the puke-colored carpet. Fucker must have moved. Couldn't be that the Genie's aim was wrong. He stayed on his stomach and pressed his hands to his head to keep it from wandering off.

"I just came to check on you. They said you inhaled something on the job today. Ray said you were acting more of a wanker than usual." He looked up. "I'd say that was something of an understatement." Christ, the carpet stank. Made his eyes water.

The man looking down at him had dead eyes. Fear spread through Gene's gut and hitched a ride on his blood cells to every nook and cranny of his body.

"Well. I see you're fine. I'll just let you sleep it off." He started crawling towards the door.

Foot. Spine. Stomach to the floor. Hands on his waist. Trousers yanked down. Cursing the Mrs. Genie for making him cut back on the butter. Five pounds lost that would have made his slacks that much harder to pull off. Then. Sound of a zip. Knees between his thighs. Fingers poking where they shouldn't.

"Sammy boy, you don't want to do this now. You'll regret it in the morning." Voice shaking so much he didn't know it was his.

The question. More pain to move? Or to stay? His tongue hit a broken tooth and the scream of nerves fogged his sight with tears.

"You will let me go. I will make you." His voice was as cold as his eyes. No, not cold. Determined. Like he'd figured something out and was… proud of himself.

Gene can't even think of the man behind him as Sam. Hyde, he thought. That's what this is. I've stumbled into a damned Victorian fable. Inhale something. Turn into a bleeping monster.

He swallowed his scream when not-Sam shoved inside him. He swallowed it again when not-Sam started pounding him like some kind of nancy boy caveman.

But he would not swallow his revenge. He would have his own back. Oh, yeah.

'Sammy boy, you are in for a very tough week.'

"Let me go. Let me go. Let me go." Pounding. Chanting. He was crying, not-Sam was, tears falling onto Gene's back.

Like Hell, Sam. Like fucking Hell. He twisted around, grabbed not-Sam's wrist.

"You. Are. Mine. For good. You got that?"

The look on the prat's face was worth the fist against his temple and the explosion of pain that followed. Oh, yes, it certainly was, the Genie thought, as his head hit the floor, unconscious, a millisecond later.


	2. A bad joke interpreted...badly

All he'd said was "What's the other guy look like?" That was it. Worth a glare, maybe. A cuff around the neck, a shove against the wall. This was the Guv after all, so, ok, open the boundaries a bit and say a gut punch would have been expected and valid. But all four, that was not on. Add to those the vice grip that threatened to crack his collarbone, the being frog-marched through the station house, down the stairs in front of God, Country, Ray and his ceaseless smirk, Carl, Annie, and God-preserve-him Phyllis, the Guv not saying a word the whole way, not a damn word, just squeezing Sam's neck like he was trying to crack an egg one-handed.

They stopped in back of the Guv's Cortina, and the Guv flung Sam around to face him.

"What the bloody hell are you on about?" Sam was shaking, down to his fingers. He charged the great bull.

Mistake.

Sam's headbutt deflected.

The Guv's well-placed knee folding him to the ground.

Don't attack the Guv. Bad things happen when one attacks the Guv. Sam knew this. He did. He just kept forgetting to remind himself…

"In my house, we show respect for our betters." Voice of gravel. He heard, but did not see, something click at the level of his head. The Guv's pistol. Well, if that didn't just confirm that the Guv had gone batshit insane…

"I didn't mean anything by it," Sam said. "You don't have to do this. It's an overreaction, even for you, isn't it?" He waited for the feel of metal against his face. He had cried once, in this situation. Now he didn't know what he wanted to do. Laugh, cry, beg. Thank him? The Guv would do it close range. Biggest mess possible that way. Little bits of Sam brain to speckle over the lot, up on the side of the building maybe, for the WPCs to scrub up while the Guv had a pint at the Railway Arms.

If he died here, would he die?

Or go someplace else? 1988 mightn't be too bad. He wouldn't mind a chance at stopping himself from dating Ann Marjorie. She broke his heart *and* turned out to be running drugs out of her house. That was a bit embarrassing on his part… They say love blinds you, but this was…

This was him about to die.

"Guv…"

The Guv grabbed him, one hand on his shirt collar, the other between his legs, and hoisted him up, over. He landed on metal covered in carpeting. That was the click he had heard. It was the boot opening, not a gun. He almost wept in relief. He looked up and saw the Guv glaring down at him. Cripes, the man had an expression, didn't he?

"Just so you know, Sammy boy, if you'd kept your gob shut, I wouldn't be having to do this. My coffee is going cold because of you."

"Figures you'd make it about yourself."

The Guv slammed the boot shut, trapping Sam in darkness except for pinpricks of light, including one that hit him right in the eye. This was, at least, familiar territory. Not for the first time, Sam indulged the fantasy of being in 2006 and reporting the Guv for gross and malicious behavior unbecoming a police officer. He'd get such a stripping down from the committee he'd... not be affected by it all. Sam kicked the latch. Again and again and again. The car started up and began moving. He gave up kicking. Removing his jacket, he curled it under his head to ward off some of the bumps. Fucker was hitting every pothole in Manchester.

They drove around and around and around, bouncing, shaking. It was worse than a boat.

"Guv, I'm sorry. Let me out! I'm sorry!" Ten minutes was a lesson well-learned, wasn't it? Talk about someone who couldn't take a joke.

Five minutes more before the car stopped. The boot popped open. The Guv grabbed him and pulled him halfway out. Sam flinched away from the red, swollen face. "You mind your p's and q's, you got that?"

It was one shake too many. Sam heaved forward and vomited. It splashed against the Guv's shirt. The Guv yanked him out of the car. Sam fell on boneless legs, his jacket dropped jacket alongside him.

"You think about what we've learned here today while you walk back to the station, Sammy boy." He got into the car, did a U-turn. He looked down at Sam, resting his elbow on the window like he was pulled up at a drive-in. "And if you take transport, don't even think about expensing it."

Sam sat on the side of the road watching the Cortina disappear and wondered where the hell he was. Then he pushed himself up on hands and knees and vomited all over again.  



	3. Driving in Circles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's too hot to do anything but write fanfic, so here's part 3…

Two types of physical pain Gene knew—the pain of the moment of impact, whether from a blow or a fall, sharp, instant, and the pain of the aftermath that came from forgetting about bruises covered by clothing and moving the wrong way or getting slapped on the back in the wrong place and the radiation of bothered nerves bringing back the memory of how the bruise got there in the first place.

And that wasn't even mentioning how his arse felt. Couldn't be obvious about it, so he forced himself to walk with long, manful strides, but he'd give the Mrs. Genie's right tit (his favorite) for the chance to shuffle along like an old lady without any of the yobs commenting.

Not that that was ever going to happen.

So. Manfully stride he did, biting the inside of his cheek every step of the way. Probably looked fucking constipated.

He hadn't intended to throw Sam in the boot of the car and take him for a spin. The Genie was a busy man. He had things to do. He wasn't twiddling his thumbs thinking, 'ooh, I know, I'll toss that tosser into me car and joggle him about.' No, he was working on cases, like a cop should do, or he was impersonating a cop working on cases, since all the letters in front of him started swimming if he spent any time looking at them.

He hadn't expected to see Sam show up at all. Gene knew his ways were old fashioned, but if he ever raped someone he worked for, he would take the week off and give the person some time to not see his ugly mug. Just good manners, that.

Apparently they didn't have manners in Hyde. When Sam made that crack about 'the other guy', like he didn't remember a thing, like he hadn't stepped over Gene's body to get out of the flat, leaving Gene to wake up, alone, and to tend to himself, alone, and get the hell out of the flat before the psycho got back, which he did, hardly taking time to do up his trousers properly before limping out the door; when Sam came in, looking like he had a hangover and decided the first thing he needed to do was insult his Guv (who he had insulted quite nicely hours before, thank you, with the buggery and all), that was when Gene decided to take him for a little walk.

But it wasn't when he decided to put him in the boot.

He put him in the boot because, once he had him on his knees in the gravel, he wanted to kill him. So, he put him in a nice little cage instead, where he'd be safe from the Gene Genie. Then he drove around until he cooled down.

Except he didn't cool down. Every time he slowed the car and thought about letting Sam out, he had to speed up again because it wasn't safe for Sam to come out.

Why he cared about Sam's safety he had no idea.

He had stuffed a wad of tissues down the back of his pants to catch any blood because the prat tore him up good, and he was stopping himself from killing him.

He didn't understand it. It was something Tyler would do. Wouldn't that just figure—prat comes along, gets the Genie to change his ways, become a more _compassionate cop_, and all so he'll have some restraint when Sam…did what he did.

Had Sam planned this? The Genie's mind circled as much as the route he was driving. No. Couldn't have. Sam had been out of his head. And, from the confused and, frankly, irate, babbling as Gene dragged him down the stairs and the ever-fading shouting from the boot, he was starting to believe that Sam didn't have a clue what had happened.

Gene pulled over and let Sam out. Instead of being grateful, the sissy puked on the Genie's favorite shirt. That earned him a walk home. That, plus Gene wasn't one hundred percent on the 'don't kill him' pledge.

He drove off, knowing two things. One, knowledgeable about the attack or not, the DI was going to have a few boxes of paperwork waiting for him when he dragged his arse back to his desk. That disrespectful crack had earned him that much.

Two, if he really didn't know, Gene would be damned if he ever found out. Last thing he needed was pity and guilt getting in the way of Tyler being a good DI.

As Gene pulled into the station, he added a third.

If Sam did know, and the wide eyes and 'what are you on about, Guv?' was an act, then one thing was certain—the Genie was scared shitless.  



	4. An action out of character

  
The area where Sam was dropped was not entirely unknown to him. He found himself amongst buildings that would undergo the opposite valuation of his factory-cum-high rent flat in the next thirty years, but they would still stand, albeit condemned, in 2006. Good for nothing but crime, which was why he knew exactly how to weave through them.

He had no money in his pocket, so he couldn't have taken transport if he'd wanted to. The walk was doing him good. Aside from allowing him to stretch his legs after being curled up, his mind was getting exercise, too. He wondered if Gene had known this about him, that a stroll with the brisk wind on his face and hands would bring him back to himself. (He remembered the Guv's red face as he shouted and decided Gene hadn't put any thought into how Sam might or might not like a walk.)

He told himself that he had no hard feelings towards Gene. This was simply how the ape operated, on over-reaction autopilot.

Sam took a step and his thoughts were pleasant, easy. He took another and his fists clenched of themselves. Who did the Guv think he was? Sam had made an offhand remark. A stranger wouldn't have got noticed for it, but Sam, second in command, got hauled out in front of everyone—and he didn't need any help in giving Ray reason to disrespect him.

They were probably all having a good laugh at the station.

Another step, and he wondered, seriously, about the other man—what he looked like—not his injuries, for surely he was painted with them, but his size. Only a hulking horse of a man could have withstood battle with the Guv long enough to lay those scratches on his neck, to bruise the forehead, to swell the jaw. That was life, he supposed, never knowing what you'd find in the morning. While Sam had been sleeping off whatever he'd inhaled (or whatever new drug his doctors had given him), the Guv was fighting for his life from the looks of him.

Another step. Ray—he stopped himself from cataloguing all the asinine things Ray had done—had never been taken for a spin in the boot. Nor Chris. No, just Sam, and it was not because he was the only one small enough to fit. Remnants of bile rose in his throat. He turned his head and spat. He couldn't fit in at the station, but he could fit in a boot just fine. What did that say about him? He wouldn't be here much longer, not long enough to waste time dwelling on what it might mean that Gene had found this perfect match of man and machine and put it to such eager use. Let them hate him and mock him. Let them do to him what they would not do to each other. Let them.

Step. It must have been 2 men (or 3) who attacked the Guv and left marks like that. Had he caught a glimmer of dread in the Guv's eye before Gene grabbed him, as if he feared Sam would say something else? Just a flash, perhaps, of an expression he'd seen before on victims of unprovoked attack. He tried to imagine the Guv becoming someone who looked over his shoulder and slept with the windows closed and locked. It bothered him that he could imagine it. He had seen it happen. Great men, turned into neurotic shells thanks to an anonymous thug stepping from the shadows. But not Gene. No. He wouldn't. He would recover himself before his bruises faded. He had to. He was the Guv.

Step. Sam had been afraid of the dark. Not as a little child—he'd skipped that cliché, perhaps because his father always returned home during the night. He developed it in university. It came on suddenly, the first night alone, darkness dropped over him, an eyeless mask, and him with no one to say goodnight to. Maybe it wasn't darkness but loneliness that scared him. In the boot, he shouted and shouted and shouted, knowing that it wouldn't make Gene stop the car, but at least he had the sound of his own voice to keep him company.

Step. Then it wasn't lonely in the boot anymore. He could hear Gene talking to him, though his voice seemed to start in his mind and push outwards, offering the awareness of an idea before it was put to sound. (He had stopped yelling when he'd first heard the Guv's voice, and had been comforted.) It was as if Gene Hunt was now sparring with Sam's mother and doctor for the role of lead soloist in the choir of his psyche. As if his words, his voice, had been in Sam's mind all along, just waiting for the moment—a well-placed bump in the road—to fling them against the right neuron and wake them up. "You're mine," Gene said. "You're mine." Taken nicely, as whispered to a lover, Gene would never say this. Interpreted sinisterly, as a method of vengeance, Gene would never do this (though Sam's current situation cast that into doubt). But, his ears were full of the bumps of the road and the squalling of the wheels and, a product of his mind or not, he decided that he had got the words wrong.

So it went, Sam's resolve fluctuating between forgiveness and fury with each step until he came finally to the station and climbed the stairs, wondering how he would stop. With which emotion would he land in the Guv's office?

Ultimately, it didn't matter. The Guv was out. (It was fury.) His journey ended with an open door, an empty office, and Ray and Chris gaping at him like a pair of stuffed fish. Ray's impression was made more cow-like by the ever-present gum that he chewed without urgency—as he did everything; punching people the only thing he did in a rush, a trait shared with the Guv.

They all three stared at each other. Chris, waiting, with his patient, serene look as Ray and Sam measured who would cave first by speaking. Sam decided to be the bigger man, though he knew Ray would see it as folding. A failure to interpret solicitous gestures was, Sam thought, the sign of a smaller man.

"Where's the Guv?"

Ray rolled his eyes towards him as if to say, 'oh, now you think we're worth addressing?'

"He ain't here," he said, finally.

"Where is he?"

Ray shrugged. "Reckon you shouldna insulted him like that. He's a sensitive guy."

Sam pushed his hand into his pocket and pushed his fingernails into his palm. He counted to ten, slowly, to himself.

"Did he tell you what happened?"

"Nah." Ray's nose flared, and he bit his gum, hard, once, before returning to his careless chewing. It more than shouted his feeling about not being the Guv's confidant. "We figured he told you, you being his DI and all." Smack. Roll of the gum.

Sam tried not to show his shock. He had been asking if the Guv had told them what he'd done to Sam, but Ray thought he was talking about the Guv's injuries. Could it be the Guv hadn't told them?

"When do you suppose he'd have told me?"

"Just now—when you was out joyriding, leaving us here with 'im in charge." He thumbed at Chris, who smiled sheepishly, as if the Guv had ordered him to write down the names of naughty co-workers on a blackboard while he was out and Ray's name was the only one taken down.

No one had followed Sam and Gene outside. Could it be Ray and Carl didn't know what had happened? Had Gene confined Sam's embarrassment to the march through the station?

"Did he come back here?" Sam had to be sure that the reason they didn't know was that the Guv had chosen not to tell them he'd stuffed Sam in the boot (again), and not simply because he had not returned but would later to tell them everything.

Ray would love that.

"Aye. Then he went out again," Ray said.

Gene had saved Sam some of his pride. That was awfully stand-up of him. Awfully…out of character. No, he was keeping quiet to protect himself from talking about what happened. The others would think he overreacted, putting Sam in the boot for so long. They would want to know why.

So what was it? What wouldn't he tell anyone? What secret was worth keeping the finest story yet about the ongoing embarrassing exploits of Sam Tyler to himself?

"Ray?" Chris said.

"Wha?"

"Shouldn't you be telling Sam about..."

Ray looked over, his boredom emanating off him like a noxious fume. "Eh. Yeah. There's been a crime."

Sam stared at him. Could he have given up on policing so thoroughly? "What is it?" The unspoken fury between the words stopped Ray from making a smart remark.

Or, it would have, if Ray had any type of internal barometer for measuring how a person's tone affected the possibility he might get punched. Such mental aids weren't needed by men like Ray, men who could fight with one eye shut and a hand behind their backs and still come out shower-fresh.

"Drugs or sommat."

"...or sommat?" Sam said.

"Yeh."

"Well. So long as we're clear on what the crime's been."

"A lady got mugged," Chris said helpfully. He glanced back and forth to see if it had helped any. "She's in the Lost and Found."

Sam turned towards him. Slowly. "Are you telling me there is a victim of a violent attack sitting alone downstairs?"

"She's with Cartwright, ain't she?" Ray said. It didn't come out sounding like a question, but Chris nodded anyway.

Sam pushed past them, each staring blankly in his own way, as if they'd never been exposed to police work before.

"O.K. I'm going to go take a statement from her. You two get yourselves in order and update me on the drug connection when I get back."

"Oh, that's easy," Chris said. "Her boyfriend was a dealer. We reckon he roughed her up and she don't want to say, so she's claiming it were a stranger." He came forward eagerly. "See, but the boyfriend just got picked up on other charges, so the Guv's gone to get him and make him stand against these first."

"I thought you said the Guv wasn't here?" Sam said.

"He's not."

"The boyfriend isn't downstairs in our lock up?"

"Ah, no." Chris said. "He wasn't picked up in this district."

"I don't understand why he didn't send a constable to do the pick up."

"Well, the thing is, see, they're a bit...uh...." Chris turned to Ray.

"Tetchy," Ray supplied, his smirk unabashed and bordering on gleeful.

"Uh, yeah, tetchy over there. So the Guv decided to go on his own, case he had to have a bang around to get our guy back."

"Well, where is he?"

"In Hyde."

"He's...gone to Hyde?" Sam felt the pull of blood leaving his cheeks, plummeting to his chest, and drawing his color with it.

"Yep. Fat lot of good that will do him. Fuckers over there will never let someone out once they've got him, not even to do something proper for a brother." Ray turned his glare fully on Sam. "Will they?"

"I guess you'll find out. I'll be in the Lost and Found." Sam managed to keep himself steady as he walked out.

Hyde. The Guv was in Hyde. It didn't mean the same, he knew. For Gene, Hyde was just another place. It didn't symbolize anything. It wasn't--fair. It wasn't fair that Gene could hop in a car and drive to Hyde, and Sam couldn't.

Then again, Sam had never tried it.

So maybe he could.


	5. Understanding the unspoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 10 part plan is still going smoothly. I can't say yet how quickly I'll be able to crank them out, but I'd say one or 2 parts a week is a valid estimation. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and supporting this story. Your comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. :)

  
A fat lot of good going to Hyde had done him. He could have sent a constable for the same result—a big fat Nothing. But, doing that would mean going back to the office, being there when Sam dragged himself in, demanding explanation, and that wasn't on. Frank Morgan, pain-in-the-arse Hyde DCI, came down to the front to meet him. Evidently, they didn't allow 'outsiders' into the inner sanctum. So, he'd pled his case for taking the nonce back to CID with their Phyllis-alike looking on from the processing desk and Frank staring at him as if he were a piece of shite on his shoe.

Morgan had explained that "Mr. Higgins" was in their care and Hyde would not relinquish him, even for a domestic rap involving a beating. He suggested the girlfriend, a druggie herself, had provoked it.

Even though, in some situations, Gene might agree that the girl was in a position that made her more likely to get beaten, he wasn't going to agree with Morgan on any point. He buried his fist in Morgan's gut hard enough to send the man to his knees (the impact sent an eruption of pain from Gene's hand to his shoulder), but Morgan simply straightened up, shook his head once, and two constables appeared to escort Gene to the door without a by-your-leave or offer of a cuppa for the road.

"Until next time, Mr. Hunt," Morgan called pleasantly. Gene thought he caught him touching his stomach in his peripheral vision and felt mildly vindicated.

But still nonce-less. He debated going into the office, but it was late and he hadn't had a night's sleep before, thanks to Tyler, so he decided to skiv off. The missus was home for once, and he found himself looking forward, needing, even, their domestic routine.

The Missus Genie spent three to four nights a week at her mother's in Warrington. Mum-in-Law Genie had dementia and no one to properly care for her. (Though Gene thought the nurse he paid to check on her three times a day and twice at night was someone enough). He had found a 'Women For Equality' pin more than once in her handbag whilst looking for extra cigarettes and suspected that she was actually off marching for The Cause, but he never asked about it. He was just as content pretending he had not married a suffragette—or whatever they called themselves these days—as she was to not tell him that he had. He thought about putting a tail on her, but he didn't want anyone at CID knowing. It wasn't anyone's business what his wife did in her extra time, was it? Not even his…

He had his own secrets. He knew she knew that he was deliberately vague about work. He didn't talk about what he saw from day to day or what he did to people to get them to admit what they'd done or might have done. He told her about the people at CID, but only to make her laugh (though she had talked him out of bashing a head in more than once). He had told her about Sam, the new guy who thought he was from another time, thinking she would think he was as bonkers as Gene did, but she hadn't, which had thrown him. She asked about all of them from time to time, but especially, lately, about 'that poor boy, Sam, was it?' And he would tease her about trying to make him jealous and tell her Sam was fine without giving away how infuriating he could be, how he seemed to have planted himself in her role, but at work, as if he were the missus' understudy. Sam Tyler, playing the part of 'Guy Who Stops the Genie from Pounding a Nonce'.

So, they got around these gaps in their communication by acting like bloomin' Ozzie and Harriet at home. Smiles and kisses at the door. They no longer hugged on sight, not out of lack of affection, but because he had too often winced when she squeezed him. So, there was always a 'state of the body' check before full contact was initiated. He would start the tea while she put the settings out for it. He used a saucer when she was there. If they hadn't seen each other for a few days, pink wafers would materialize and take a place of honor in the center of the tray.

They went into the sitting room where he looked at the sports pages and she pulled out the quilt she'd started crocheting as a baby gift for a niece who was now six years old. They talked, but not much, and not about difficult things. He said something off-color and didn't realize until she rolled her eyes and laughed. Moments like this, he couldn't believe she was a bloody women's libber. He'd never known any who thought he was funny, and he'd been slapped by a fair few. (Slugged them back, as they didn't count as proper women, but more like an inter-species between male and female.)

He loved her, but at some point had stopped thinking of her as a woman, but not in the same way that he didn't think of the libbers as women. She was more of a mate. He suspected that her attraction to him had waned, too. Physically, she hadn't changed much. She'd given him something to hold onto from the start. He was the one with the expanding belly and thinning hair, which she teased him about from time to time, but not in a way that made him self-conscious. Sex was never spontaneous—nor was it a particular chore—but it too often seemed they did it because that was what married couples did and not because they wanted to. He didn't know if she suspected him of using hookers--enough came directly to him for it to be feasible-- and he never told her that for all the little he looked at her, he looked at other women even less. She, in turn, did not answer his unspoken questions about the perversions of the ladies on the marches that he wasn't supposed to know about and if she was ever drawn to them. (He found a silk scarf in her handbag once that was not hers and did not smell like her.)

At some point, he put the telly on and let the BBC fill in their conversational silences until she got up, kissed his forehead, and said good night. He waited twenty minutes for her to get through her ablutions (a word he'd never heard until he was married) before following.

In the early days of his marriage, Gene had tried to convince the missus that there was more to the coital than him on top and her laid flat beneath him. She, however, of the 'lay back and think of England' upbringing, wasn't having it. (Another reason for Gene to second-guess himself on the suffragette theory.) So, Gene had got used to 'climbing aboard' and jack-rabbitting his way to orgasm.

He had never in his life been enthusiastic about the missionary position, but now he finally saw how wonderfully useful it could be. When he undressed for bed, the missus got a good look at the bruises on his body, which he easily enough explained away. His coming home with bruises was nothing new, and, to be honest, he was touched that she still asked about them. But the one injury he couldn't explain, wouldn't know how to even begin explaining, that was safely tucked up between clenched bum cheeks, where her hands never wandered and her eyes never looked.

Missionary be praised. Hide from your wife and have sex, too.

She reached for him, smiling. Laid back and ready to go. He crawled onto the bed, trying not to wince. He pulled himself along her body. He kissed her as he stroked himself. And stroked. And tugged. And squeezed. And cajoled. She touched his face.

"You ok, love? We don't have to do this tonight if you're hurt…"

"Wednesday, isn't it?" He wished she would stop looking at him with those understanding eyes. He rose up on his knees, arched his back over her and looked down at his worthless cock.

Fucking Tyler. Adjective.

He felt something in his groin. An ember.

He thought it again. Fucking Tyler. Morphing to verb.

Definite reaction. He closed his eyes and let the thought come, disturbing as it might be, but this was emergency action, here. His reputation as a man was in danger. It wouldn't be the first time his cock led him onto fantasies he didn't know he had. When his mind took over, filtering through himself for the one little thing he needed to spring, so to speak, into action, it wasn't the rape conjured up, which surprised him, it being the only sexual evidence of Tyler he had. No, his cock was rising on the simple mental image of Sam Tyler sitting at his desk, smiling in response to an offhand 'Good job' that Gene had tossed him after a rough case.

He twitched when the missus touched his shoulder. Then her hand became Sam's because he kept his eyes closed and let himself believe it. He felt her reach down and put him inside her, and he forced himself to go slowly, focusing on Sam's smile, on his hands touching his shoulders and face. He tried to remember what Sam smelled like and couldn't. He knew that as soon as he returned to the reality, the mundane-ness of what he what he was doing, who he was doing it with, he would lose his erection. The thought had him going soft already, out of shame to the missus. He conjured up Sam's pearly whites, the crinkles around his laughing eyes, the pride within them, and got enough gumption back to finish with a doable, if not impressive, orgasm. Only then did he open his eyes and see that the missus had fallen asleep.

He rolled off and went into the bathroom. He wiped himself clean with his hand. He told himself that what just happened was because of the rape. But, shouldn't he have thought of the rape, if that was the case? Hard to deny he was turned on by someone when the fantasy involved the equivalent of bloke in a still photo, and one of a fully clothed bloke, at that. Gene found himself faced with a situation he didn't know what to do with. He wanted Sam Tyler; Sam Tyler had already had him and didn't know it; and Sam Tyler might be a psychopath.

He stuck his hand under the faucet and rinsed the cum off his palm.

Just another day, then.

He went back to bed. They slept without touching.

In the morning, the missus had the radio on. An American D.J. was talking to a composer and gushing with unBritish-wonderment about the arrangement of a piece he was about to play in which the composer interlaid a solo violin with another, harsher melody involving trumpets and winds. From the timbre of his voice, Gene placed the D.J. in his fifties. Without knowing why, he found himself feeling unexpectedly affectionate towards the man and his enthusiasm as the light voice pulled him into consciousness. He also could not explain why, as he lay there, the violin portion of the tune conjured up the image of a desert, sunshine, and a people-less landscape.

On the way to work, he suddenly remembered his arousal and its origin in Sam's smile. This coupled with the reawakening of the dull pain in his ribs (under strain from his arms raised to rest on the steering wheel) and he wondered if he'd overdone it—punching Morgan and having sex so soon after… Lifting Tyler into the boot probably hadn't helped, either. Time, perhaps, to accept that he would get old, too. His body couldn't shrug off beatings like it once did. Despite the pain, he was starting to get hard again, off Sam and his smile. He pressed down on his crotch over his trousers. Abruptly, his mind spun him around, put him back in Sam's room on the floor, bleeding and broken. Had he cried? He couldn't remember. He decided that he had not.

At a stoplight, he opened the door, leaned out, and vomited. He took a pull of the flask, swished and spat. He was up and moving again at green. He was still hard.

When he got up to the outer offices at CID, Tyler's desk was empty. He gave a small prayer of thanks and concentrated on walking like an uninjured man towards his office.

"You o.k. Guv?" Ray looked up as he passed, his arms tense on his chair, as if he wanted to stand.

"Can't a man take a night off once in awhile?" Gene didn't mean to snap, and the shock that passed over Ray's face was enough to make him consider an apology. The desire passed quickly as they both recovered.

"Sure, Guv, but you didn't call. We was worried, like."

He hadn't called? Fuck. "The missus was home." He waited, knowing Ray would know what that implied. Sure enough, Ray nodded, a co-conspirator after the fact. A slight grin wormed its way onto his face, but Gene's glare sent it scampering away. He didn't allow for any freedoms in imagining the Missus Genie.

Gene made it to his office. Opened the door. And saw Sam sitting in front of his desk. Figured he'd be hiding in here… Sam turned and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"I come in peace."

"So?" Gene looked back at Ray and Chris, who were pretending not to watch him. He took the extra step into his office and closed the door. He felt like he hadn't made a move in the last twenty-four hours without someone judging him.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Sam said.

Gene nodded curtly. "Well, if that's all…"

"And if you want to tell me what happened, I am here and ready to listen." He took on a pleasant, infuriating, Samaritan-tone.

Something flared in Gene's chest. He wanted to throw Sam against the wall, but the pain from simply getting to work was still with him, so he remained immobile. "Thank you, Gladys. Now get back to work."

"Guv…" The bloomin' Nancy hadn't budged.

"Bust up outside the pub, right? Got into a tiff over the footie."

"Nelson didn't know anything about a bust-up."

"You asked Nelson, did you?"

Sam flushed but stood (or sat, rather) his ground. "Knowing you, pub brawl seemed the most logical explanation. But Nelson says it didn't happen."

"Well, we was outside, weren't we?"

"And no arrests?"

Gene could smack the smugness off his smug little smug face—might be worth the promise of pain. But not worth letting Tyler see it. "I don't know how they do it in Hyde, but here a man is allowed to support the club of his choice. Next time you feel like checking up on me, Susie, you restrain yourself or I'll have you busted down to plod so fast your eyes water. Are we clear?"

Sam slowly walked over to him. "You know, Guv, usually you'd have shoved my face into the filing cabinet by now."

Gene unlatched the door and shoved it open. "Maybe I'm feeling charitable. Get your bony arse back to work."

With no acknowledgment at all, Sam walked back to his desk. Gene shut the door. He was halfway through his coffee when Chris breached his borders, probably sent in by Ray and Sam as least likely to get his head bitten off.

"Guv? Uh, we was just wondering if Hyde had allowed the transfer of the bloke accused of roughing up the young lady…"

Hyde. Shite. He'd forgotten. "No, Chris, they didn't. Seems they don't let the likes of us into Hyde. You have to be a ponce to get…" He trailed off. It could be a mistake. No. The Gene Genie did not make mistakes, and he might not like it, but he was Sheriff. He did what had to be done for the good of his community. He flung his coat over his shoulder and marched past Chris, ignoring both his throbbing, taxed ribs and Chris's puzzled, "Guv?"

He stopped in front of his own personal ponce. Sam blinked up at him, waiting.

"Get yer jacket. We're goin' ta Hyde."

"What do you mean, 'we're going to Hyde?'" Sam repeated the words as if they required translation through some internal filter in that convoluted head of his.

"Just what I said, Nancy. They're being greedy with our nonce, so we're going to get him."

"You mean we're going to steal the suspect from them?"

"Look. They speak ponce, and you are a ponce. So, you're coming along as translator, like. You want to go to Hyde or not?"

"Yes." He was up and getting his coat.

Gene watched him shrug it on. "All that banging on about it… 'ooh Hyde, send me back to Hyde...' and now you ain't movin'..."

"I said 'yes.'" Sam trotted out ahead of Gene. "I'd love to go to Hyde." He turned and grinned as if Gene were doing him some gigantic favor. And it hit Gene right where it was most inconvenient. Despite himself, he smiled back.

"Slow down, Sammy--you'll have me thinking you don't like us."

The swinging door answered him.  



	6. The wrong mystery solved...sort of

  
Sam couldn't stop himself from glancing at the Guv every chance he got as they drove towards Hyde. He chewed the inside of his cheek and tried not to look excited.

Gene finally noticed. "Whatcha starin' at me like that for?"

"I'm just happy to be in this part of the car."

"You keep an eye on your mouth or you'll find that remedied."

"I can't see my mouth."

"What?"

"Nothing." He reached for the radio. Gene smacked his hand away.

"I'm drivin'. I'll do the radio flippin', thank you." He turned the dial decisively.

&lt;&lt; Sam? It's Mum. Doctor said you had a visitor from another ward. Said you got agitated. Were you scared, Sammy? You needn't be. I'm here with you. &gt;&gt;

_…son of my father, molded, I was folded, I was free from draft_

"Flip the station back."

"This is my favorite song." The Guv began singing along lustily.

"Those aren't the words."

"These are the words I prefer."

"Flip it back." Sam lurched towards the radio and got a fist in his sternum for his effort. He bounced against the back of the seat and glared.

"Fine. Not any fun if you're going to be like that." The Guv flipped the tuner to where it was. "Shoulda known you'd be a bleedin' showtune fan. Didn't even know they played bloody showtunes on the radio."

&lt;&lt; He's crying. You said that was normal, right? The crying? Oh, Sam… &gt;&gt;

&lt;&lt; It happens, Mrs. Tyler. Just keep talking to him. &gt;&gt;

Yeah, mum, Sam thought. Just keep talking. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her, leaning over him, touching his forehead, maybe softly tugging the short hair above it, trying to force it to lay down. Maybe if you say the right thing, I'll wake up.

&lt;&lt; _Here's to pretty girls who went to our head. Here's to witty girls who went to our bed. Here's to them, and here's to you…_ &gt;&gt;

Oh, sure. Two seconds ago the Guv was giving him guff about liking musicals and now he was belting one out while _Sam's mum was probably saying the magic words to bring him back_. "Will you shut up?" Sam snapped his gaze over to Gene.

Gene looked at him, mouth agape. "I haven't said a bloody word, have I? Sittin' here, minding my business while you're in your usual sulk, aren't I?" He banged the top of the steering wheel, as if its sturdiness was proof that he'd been doing nothing but drive.

"You weren't just singing 'Drink With Me' from Les Miserables?"

"Les Mizawhat? Don't you start spouting that Froggie shite at me. Or do I need to remind you I've got a perfectly empty boot just behind you? Just when I think you can't get any poncier…"

"Fine. Sorry." Sam hunched down, crossed his arms, and indulged himself in a full on sulk.

"Though, mind you, that does sound like the kind of song I'd enjoy, if the title is anything to go by… How's it go?"

"Nevermind. It hasn't been written yet."

A muscle in Gene's left cheek twitched. Calmly, he pulled the car off the road and put it into park.

Sam looked through the back window, hoping that they were pulling off because someone had signaled them. Or that they had a flat tire. Or the Guv wanted to stretch his legs. The Guv sat, waiting silently. Sam was doomed. He tried not to let his desperation show as he began bartering (who was he kidding?) begging to stay in the proper end of the car.

"I'm sorry. I'll sing it for you. I'm sure it won't…cause any trouble in the time-space continuum if you learn a showtune…"

"Too late, Gladys. Now, way I see it, you can either put yourself in the boot, nice and easy. Or, I can do it for you. Which will not be—"

"Nice and easy." Sam closed his eyes. Wake up. Wake up. "Guv, please. We're almost to… Hyde." Home. He almost said 'home'.

"I'm going to count to three."

"Guv. I said I was sorry."

"One."

"Come on, please. I won't…I won't say a thing. And I'll be…"

"Two."

"Good! I'll be good." He felt four years old again. How many times had he promised to be good so his father would come home? Some promises are never outgrown. Just reapplied.

"Three." Gene's fist closed on Sam's collar and tugged him forward. Sam braced himself, knowing he was about to be pulled across Gene's lap and hurled headfirst onto the ground.

"…Guv?" The radio crackled. Gene dropped Sam and leaned over him to reach it. Sam tried to pretend that his head was not caught between his Guv's legs and stomach. Given how good he was at creating everything in 1973, he was more than a little disappointed that he could not uncreate something. He could still feel the roughness of the Guv's trousers against his cheek, and the heat of his torso on his back.

"Yeah, love. What is it?"

"There's been a body spotted. You should be near the area. You and DI Tyler mind stoppin' by? Plod is on the way over, but figured Tyler would want detectives on the scene, and since he's there with you…"

"Yeah. Give us the location."

Phyllis told them the body had been found in back of a deserted factory building. "We're on our way." The Guv hung the radio back on its hook and sat up. "Looks like you don't have to go in the boot after all."

"Thank God." Sam sat up, gingerly. He settled back into his seat as Gene sent the car flying through the streets.

"Guv's fine. Ah, there's your station." Sam looked as they flew past Hyde Station. He nodded, as if he knew this 1973 version, as if he recognized the cars parked in front of it. Perhaps misreading Sam's expression he added, "You can see all your little mates in a few minutes, once we finish with this corpse." They stopped a block away from the station. They were the first on the scene. The factory, as promised, was empty, as were the lanes around it. No witnesses hanging about, no one to talk to about where this body might be… The air was dry and stagnant, as if it had held, for years, the stench of manufacturing.

"Thought plod was coming?"

"Probably having trouble buttoning their uniforms. Come on; let's find him ourselves. Go that way."

Sam set off in the direction Gene pointed. The east side of the building was clear, but as he rounded the corner, he saw a pair of boots, toes pointing up, on the opposite side of a blue dumpster.

"Guv, I've found him!" Sam skidded around the dumpster towards the motionless boots. He grabbed the metal handle to stop himself from sliding past, as his shoes didn't give him much traction on the gravel. He stared down at the body.

And stared.

And stared.

Vic Tyler was lying at his feet.

Vic stirred and looked up. "Sammy?" He stretched his hand out. Sam took it, even though he knew his father was calling for his little son. He knelt beside him. It was a mistake. His father wasn't dead. Someone probably just saw him passed out and called in a crank.

Vic touched Sam's face, traced long fingers down his cheek. "You're such a beautiful boy, my Sammy." He turned and coughed. "You grew up so well."

"You know me, Dad?" Sam squeezed his hand. He pulled his father into his chest, but Vic had stopped speaking. Instead, he smiled at Sam. Sam raised their clasped hands to his lips and kissed his father's knuckles.

"Oi! What the bloomin' 'ell are you doin', Gladys?" Slam of meaty hands on his shoulder, and Sam was ripped away.

"You need to call an ambulance, Guv. He could still make it!" Sam flung himself back into Gene's face, pointing and shouting.

"He's dead."

"No. He was just talking to me."

The Guv grabbed him and spun him around. A hand on the back of Sam's neck forced him to look. "Dead. Dead for at least an hour from the looks of it. I called the coroner. Should be here in five minutes, in case you two want some alone time." He shoved Sam towards the corpse and walked off a few steps.

Sam caught himself before he toppled onto his father. Dead. He hadn't come back... Had Vic Tyler died, a John Doe behind a dumpster? Never to be found? Sam glanced back at Gene, who was standing with his back turned. He knelt beside Vic. "Don't worry. I'll make sure mom knows. And me. Little me." He kissed his father's forehead. "You're not alone, Daddy."

&lt;&lt; Pervert is what he is, always wandering in here, staring at him. &gt;&gt;

&lt;&lt; Doctor, he's harmless. Come on, let's go back to your room, now. &gt;&gt;

&lt;&lt; Don't touch that! Get him out of here! &gt;&gt;

In the distance, he heard the sirens approaching. "You finished?" Gene said, turning now and looking at him with disgust, no—discomfort, which, from him, was worse.

&lt;&lt; Sam? Sam? Stay with us now… &gt;&gt;

Sam didn't pay him any mind, though, because he was looking over the Guv's shoulder at the great plume of fire and smoke coming from the direction of Hyde PD. Gene whirled simultaneously with the deafening noise, a sound that slowed everything and made even the air shimmer.

They watched, frozen. Then debris began to rain down on them. It must have been only seconds, and then Gene was grabbing him, Sam trying to hold onto Vic, and his father's hand forced from his as he was thrown into the dumpster. He sank into a mire of broken trash bags, their contents spilling out, swallowing his legs and hands. Gene dove in after him and slammed the lid shut. It was dark. Every movement was joined by squelching sound.

"Fuck me!" The Guv roared his disgust, his voice coming out of the blackness like a train down a tunnel.

A rat scuttled across Sam's hand. He pulled his knees up to his chest, and his mind went blank. Hyde. Blown to bits. He wouldn't get home now.

He wasn't allowed to stay in his shut off space because the Guv was trying to press something into his hand. 1973, and the damn symbol of it, still demanded his attention like a giant three year old.

"I don't need a fucking drink! Why do you always have to have a damn flask in your hand?" Sam pushed Gene's arm away. He cupped his mouth and nose with his other hand. The stench—like someone had bottled up the formaldehyde and the drained bodily fluids from the morgue, mixed them up with Chinese takeout, vomited on it, dumped it into this container and thrown the lid closed to keep the scent in. And along with the smell was the echoing of debris landing on the lid and resonating from wall to wall to wall to wall with deafening clatter.

Gene grabbed his wrist and twisted until Sam opened his hand. Gene slammed the flask into it. "Put it to your nose. Keeps the smell out."

Sam raised the flask and inhaled. Immediately, his nostrils burned with whisky fumes. In seconds, he couldn't smell anything. Between one hail of debris and another, he heard the Guv grunting as he rearranged himself with his back (Sam assumed) on the opposite wall. "Won't have you saying a bad word 'bout me flasks. Saved me life more than once, Sammy."

"Sorry," Sam muttered. Gene's shoe was touching Sam's leg. Sam shifted, thinking that 'sorry' wasn't enough, given as Gene was being nice to him and had probably just saved him. He rested his foot in the curve of Gene's ankle. He thought Gene would kick him away, but he didn't. He was too occupied with radioing CID.

"This is A1. Someone's just sent Hyde PD sky high. Send help. Now."

An empty crackle of dead air answered him, and he tried again, angrier.

&lt;&lt; I'm waiting for you. &gt;&gt;

"Did you say something, Guv?"

"Aside from swearing at this flippin' radio, no. You're supposed to be smelling the flask, not drinking from it. You leave the whiskey to the grownups."

Somewhere, Sam heard someone crying. "I…I'm not dead." For the first time, the fact sunk in. Hyde was gone, and he was still here. Breathing. Crying, possibly.

"Course you ain't dead. I'm here, ain't I?"

"Yeah." Whatever that means, he did not add.

More shouting into the radio. "Hello? Anyone there? Two of your finest requesting help. Pronto!"

He reached down, grabbed Gene's nearest loafer by the toes and held on for his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs used are "Son of My Father" by Chicory Tip and "Drink With Me" from Les Miserables.


	7. All turned to dust

  
At some point, the ponce started talking to himself. He was doing it so convincingly that Gene checked that it was just the two of them trapped. One Gene Genie, one psycho DI, all present and accounted for. Sam was still squeezing Gene's foot. His toes had gone numb from the pressure, but he didn't shake him off. He could handle that—he knew what physical contact could do for someone on the verge of insanity. But the yammering on…that he could do without. A man needed a moment of peace, didn't he? Just as Gene was starting to think that Sam was going to babble himself to death—a death helped along by Gene's hand over his mouth to get him to shut the hell up—the lid of the dumpster was wrenched open and Carling's oversized head grinned down at them.

"'Bout bloody time," Gene said. Then, the sudden exposure of fresh air arousing in him a new worry: "How's my girl?"

Ray glanced over at Tyler and grinned. "You tell me, Guv. You're the one's spent the day with her."

Sam, stretching carefully to his feet, glared. Gene was too overwhelmed with worry to enjoy the moment. "I meant the car, you div."

"Eh, I was only teasin'. Cortina's fine, Guv. Not a speck o' dust on 'er."

Gene closed his eyes as relief washed over him. Small miracles be praised. He grabbed Carling's outstretched hand and together they leveraged him out. He landed on top of Carling and looked over to see Sam climbing nimbly over the side. Gene told himself that if he wasn't injured, he'd be doing the same, but he knew it wasn't true. His days of climbing nimbly had ended in his twenties (and possibly never started). Without the adrenaline pumping through him that had gotten him and, amazingly, Sam, into the dumpster, there was no way he was getting out of it without help. Didn't mean he was jolly from being heaped on top of Carling like a couple of fallen ice dancers. A DCI had to maintain some dignity… Unlike his DI, apparently. Sam was on his knees next to the dumpster picking bits of stone and brick away, practically caressing each one before he tossed it aside.

If Carling noticed, he didn't ask what Sam was doing. Since the answer to that question, any time it was posed, often led to more confusion, Gene thought Carling had made the wise decision to keep his nose out of it. Gene certainly wasn't interested in explaining that Sam was wasting his energy unburying a corpse that was dead before the explosion.

Gene rolled off Carling and got to his feet, every move eliciting a different throbbing discomfort. He brushed himself off, loosening strands of still-wet spaghetti from his trousers, and did a quick calculation. Less than 40 hours had passed since Sam had attacked him. _Less than 40 hours_. Felt like days since everything he'd understood had been turned upside down, since he'd had to reassess his opinions on what was normal and what wasn't.

"Cor, Guv, ya smell like a…" Gene's thunderous glare stopped Carling cold.

"Smell like a what, Ray? Like I've been in a dumpster the past hour? Whose fault is that, eh? Yeh might've had a team out here a mite quicker."

"Sorry, Guv. We figured you was safe, like, so long as we could hear ya on the radio, so we diverted all the teams over to Hyde PD to do what good they could."

Gene looked over at the plume of black smoke still hovering over the former PD. "Was there anything…"

"It's gone. Building's turned to rubble, rubble's turned to dust—" He glanced at Gene. "Poetic for me, I know." A sharp laugh cut off before it began. "You want me to do anything, Guv? Else I'd rather get back to the rescue team."

"No, you go on."

Ray nodded and trotted off. Gene wasn't sure if his pleased expression came from being excused to do something exciting—not every day an explosion happened—or from relief at not having to stand next to the cesspool of stench that Gene was impersonating any longer.

"What about my da—Vic Tyler?" Sam said. "You don't think he's worth mentioning?"

"Didn't want to interrupt your love-in with the rubble."

Sam glared.

"Oh, all right. Ray!"

Ray came trotting back, looking none too pleased. "Yeh?"

"We got a body here. Vic Tyler. He was here before the explosion. Have some plod dig him out and get him down the morgue."

"No, we need forensics in," Sam said.

Gene gestured at the pile of rubble under which, he assumed, Vic Tyler was buried. "There's no evidence left, Sammy boy. We'll have to rely on your memory."

"Mine?"

"Yeh. You were close enough to see if he died natural or not, weren't ya? Not that what you were doing was natural…"

Seeing the look in Sam's eyes, Gene barked at Ray, and the other man smoothly stepped between him and Sam, who collided with Ray and bounced back, holding his fist to his chest. "Can't do your own fighting any more, Guv?"

Gene started to walk away, calling instructions over his shoulder. "Get forensics if there's anybody who can be spared from the explosion. If not—that's one less nonce on the street and I'll not be losing any sleep over 'im."

He marched towards the smoke with no idea who was heading up the investigation—if it was a first come first served, in which case he'd call himself the boss, or if someone from Division had arrived. There wasn't any order at first glance, just a bunch of uniforms treading over the rubble with rakes and dogs. Some civilians were clustered around the police barricades, staring; a few were crying or talking to officers. Gene waved his badge at one of the plods and asked who was in charge. He was pointed towards a tall, thin man standing on top of a particularly high pile of debris, long coat waving in the wind, pointing and barking orders. Gene was instantly scornful of the god-like display. Work to be done and he's playing Zeus up there. The knowledge that he'd be doing the same thing, had been counting on getting to do it, and was irate that he wasn't, only served to increase his dislike for this supposed leader.

And then the man turned around and Gene's burgeoning hatred surged into full, raging form. He charged up the pile, nimble as a mountain goat, forceful as a ram. "Morgan. What did you do to survive? Make a pact with the devil?"

DCI Frank Morgan turned, not seeming to mind that Gene had left him no space to do so, and regarded him with the polite, if disinterested, gaze that Gene had come to know and hate. "I was at brunch with my mother when we heard the explosion."

"Any survivors?" From this vantage point, Gene could see separate plumes of smoke wafting upwards from amongst the ruins.

"Not as yet."

"You don't seem overly torn up about it."

"The field is no place for emotion, Mr. Hunt. If you'll excuse me… The air is a bit stagnant up here. Perhaps you should go see to your men from your own pile of rubble."

Gene got the hint and brushed against Morgan, who wrinkled his nose, as he clambered back down, taking care to not to hit a loose rock and go sliding.

He found Ray watching the coroner's van drive away. "Tyler went with 'im. He were a right mess," Ray said. "ME weren't too happy neither, having someone as stunk worse 'n the d.o.a. in wi' 'im."

Gene absorbed this without much interest. He tossed Ray the keys to the Cortina. "Drive 'er back to the office, Raymundo."

"What about you, Guv?"

"I'll catch a ride with plod. I'm not gettin' in my girl smelling like a horse shat on me."

Ray nodded. "You treat your women well, Guv."

"Bugger off."

Grinning, Ray headed for the car.

"Oi, you!" Gene set upon the first plod who turned around and soon had himself a ride back to CID with a young man whose ashen face Gene took to be the result of fear at being in his vicinity rather than a physical reaction to the stench wafting off him. Still, he felt the urge to be kind as they pulled into the driveway.

"Take the rest of the day off, son." He tossed him a fiver. "Have a few pints on me."

"Thank you, sir." The kid paused in his coughing to beam.

There were a couple of plods in the locker room when Gene tore in. "Oi, quit slackin' and get to work!" They grabbed their things and ran. Gene eased out of his clothes. With a mournful farewell, he binned his trousers and shirt. The white loafers were placed on a bench. He'd find a shop to clean them properly if it killed him. Naked, he walked into the empty shower room. The walls were still wet and the room was pleasantly warm from the previous occupants. He turned the middle showerhead on and let the water wash the filth off him. There were no mirrors, so he couldn't give himself a proper inspection, but at a glance he saw purpling marks on his chest and collarbone. Phantom fingers, preserved in blue and red, squeezed his hips and inner thighs. He had a cut on his forehead, just at the hairline. He danced his fingers carefully over the thin scab.

"I couldn't get any information. No one would come near me. You have the same problem?" Gene could hear rustling over the water and guessed that Sam was disrobing.

"You think anyone's going to tell me I'm not smellin' like sunshine and roses? Yeh ain't are comin' in here, are ya?"

"No—I thought I'd just let myself air out from here."

"Good."

"'Course I'm coming in there."

"Can't a man get some privacy?" Gene cranked the heat up on the shower. If he didn't have time to heat up the room enough to give him a cover of steam, he could at least try to turn his unblemished skin red enough to match the rest of him. "Five minutes, Tyler."  
"That long and this smell will soak into the walls out here," Sam said. He came in, clutching a towel around his waist. "Don't remember you giving me any privacy when I was handcu…" He trailed off. Gene turned quickly, trying to angle himself so the worst of the bruises couldn't be seen, but it was an impossible endeavor. He could feel Sam staring at him, practically hear his little brain clicking away, filing every single blemish, cataloguing it against the ones he'd seen before _in Hyde_, slotting it into a category. And as he felt Sam watching him, Gene started to get aroused.

"Tyler, get out."

"Gene…"

Gene flung himself forward, attacking the wall because he wasn't going to turn around and attack Sam in his current condition of interest. He threw his fists against the slick ceramic like a six foot three year old. "Goddammit, Tyler. Get out."

He heard Sam start to move, finally, and he started to relax. Then he realized the div wasn't leaving. He had stepped closer.

"You been to a hospital, Gene?"

"I don't need to go to a bloody hospital."

"It's just…you could have internal injuries."

Gene turned and glared. Sam's eyes glanced down automatically and popped up again just as quickly. "What makes you think I would?"

"Just…the pattern of bruises, it indicates…"

"What, Tyler?"

"I…" He stretched his hand out, like he was going to touch him. Gene glowered him back.

"You should get checked over is all," Sam said, faltering.

"How about you keep yourself to yourself, Gladys?"

Sam backed off, nodding. He turned one of the showerheads on.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm showering. I've seen what you've been hidin'. I can't unsee it, can I? So I may as well shower."

Gene didn't know if he was talking about the bruises or the hardon. He wasn't chuffed about Tyler seeing either.

"You get Vic Tyler to the morgue alright?" Gene said because Sam was still staring at him.

"His face was bashed in. I couldn't… recognize him." Tyler's voice hitched in the middle of the sentence, but he got control of himself to finish.

"Christ, Gladys, yer not crying over a nonce, are ya?"

Sam shook his head almost violently. He immersed himself under the water, suddenly taking an interest in getting clean.

"Shit," Gene said. "Ya are."

"What the hell do you care about it anyway?" Sam glared at him, dripping.

"Don't. Just. You get weirder by the second, don't you?"

Sam turned the water off. "His face was as good as gone, Gene. I knew the guy. I…"

Tyler's face crumpled and he sagged forward. Gene, from instinct more than concern, took the few steps forward to catch him. Tyler hung onto him, his slick body a little too close for comfort. Gene tried to angle himself away, but merely ended up poking Tyler's hip with his cock. The ponce cried for two incredibly confusing minutes before he pulled away.

"Sorry," he said. "Please don't tell anyone I cried."

Gene stared at him as he left and figured he didn't need to say, "Please don't tell anyone my erection was poking into your leg." Something like that, a man just understood.

Gene pushed himself under the water again, turned the cold up and stayed put until every nerve screamed.


	8. What can't be taken back

"Did you like his prick touching you, Sam?" _She_ was perched in his chair with her legs crossed Indian-style and that damn doll in her lap.

"I'm not talking to you." Sam scrunched up on the end of his bed and massaged his temples. Gene. God. Bruises all over him. No wonder he'd stopped punching Sam so much. Probably hurt to move. Wouldn't go asking for help, though, would he? Just tough it out. Damn machismo.

"Did you want to touch it, Sam?"

"I already was touching it. It was poking my thigh, wasn't it?" Surely the Guv hadn't meant anything by his erection. Sam got a stiff one when he got scared, too. Secret like that, made sense the Guv would have some blood pumping when he was about to be found out. And it had to go somewhere. Sam had felt it bumping against him when Gene held him, but Gene hadn't said anything about it. Well. Not like he would, anyway. Bring attention to one thing in that room, bring attention to it all.

"I mean with your hand. Did you want to wrap your fingers around it and give it a pull?" He stopped rubbing his head and glared at her.

"Little girls should not be saying things like that—especially not little girls who exist in my imagination."

"Well. Maybe you're a pervert."

"You mean 'gay'. There's nothing wrong with being gay. But I'm not… Please go away." He wasn't… No. He couldn't say that he wasn't gay because he'd had experiences. When he was young, a teenager, with other boys all standing around looking at each other, but they didn't touch. And it wasn't really gay. It was just being young. But he thought if he did it again as an adult, it would be gay. He didn't really mind the thought of doing it again. So. He couldn't say he wasn't gay. And he really couldn't say it when the answer was that yes, he did kind of want to 'give it a pull' and see what happened. But not until he sorted out whether or not the Guv felt the same.

The television switched to a program. It was Vic, standing in front of the blackboard giving a lecture on math. Sam hadn't known his father was able to explain calculus. His head was all in one piece. He looked like himself. He wielded the chalk with aplomb. Sam and the Test Card Girl watched for a few moments. Then she had to ruin it.

"Do you feel bad that you killed your daddy?"

"I didn't…"

"If you'd arrested him like you were supposed to, he would be in prison now, and he wouldn't have been near that explosion. He might have been killed in prison, though." She seemed to be attempting to be helpful. She rearranged the doll on her lap.

"This is not an improvement in the conversation." He reached forward and turned the volume up on the television.

"Do you want to talk about Gene's prick again?"

"No."

He leaned up and tapped the television. "Dad? I'm here."

Vic carried on with his lecture.

"Good night, Dad." It was going to be good, he thought, having his dad on the television where he could see him whenever he wanted. He gave the television a hug.

"That's not really him, Sam," she said.

"I know that."

Sam put himself to bed. He reached up to turn off the light, glancing towards the chair as he did, another "good night" on his lips, but she and the doll were gone. He fell back on the pillow. What was he thinking? Was she so much a part of his life now that he would wish her well as he drifted to sleep?

He stood in Gene's kitchen, wondering how he got there. Gene was standing at the counter, spreading butter onto a slice of bread. Its companion lay beside it, heaped high with Cornish beef. He either hadn't noticed Sam or was expecting him to talk to his back.

"I hurt you." Sam didn't know why he said this, but it seemed appropriate, somehow, especially when Gene put the butter knife down, closed the sandwich, and turned to face him. His tie was off, and collar open, even though he still wore his jacket. His chest was hairless and pink, and Sam wanted to touch it. He stepped towards him, hands outstretched. Gene didn't move as Sam laid a tentative finger on him.

"I'm so sorry, Guv." His vision fogged as his eyes brimmed with tears. Gene swam in front of him, dividing under his wavering focus. Sam wondered what he was apologizing for. That smart comment from the day he got thrown in the boot, probably. Or refusing to give him the lyrics to Les Miserables. Or losing it in the shower over his dad. He could take his pick. Probably hurt the Guv's feelings. If he had feelings…

"It's all right, Sammy boy. You were out of your head. We'll call it done, yeah? Bridge under the water and all that." Gene offered a token pat on Sam's arm and started to move aside. His expression was unreadable.

"I didn't know." Sam's hand snaked into Gene's hair, stopping him. Feeling like himself and yet not, Sam seemed to watch from someplace deep within as he pressed his tear-drenched cheek against Gene's face.

"But now that I remember, all that I want..." He stopped to kiss his earlobe gently "...is to do it again."

Something stirred in his belly as he spoke, and it came alive into flame as he felt Gene tense against him. He yanked Gene's head backwards by the hair and drove his knee into the Guv's crotch. Gene gasped and dropped like a boulder off a cliff. No question about the expression now. It was fear, out and out, facing up at him.

"This time, Gene, I'll give you a night we'll both remember." Sam looked down at the man on his knees. He played his fingers through Gene's hair and grinned. He understood now.

And he felt good.

"…of course what you have to remember when you hurt someone, is that eventually they'll hurt you back. You can spend the rest of your life waiting, watching…. Is that any way to live?" Vic said.

Sam's eyes popped open. He sat up, clawing the sheets off himself. Fuck. A dream. Only a dream. He scrubbed sweat off his arms, freezing. He hadn't…he wasn't… Fuck. On the television, his father continued his advice, abandoning the math for the moment.

"Looking over your shoulder, not sure if you're one step ahead, or one step behind?" Vic peered into the camera. "That is why you must never, ever hurt anyone, children. Now go back to sleep, Sammy. It's only a bad dream. Never let your guard down, son. Not even for a second. And remember that Daddy loves you." He pressed his hand to the screen, and Sam stretched towards it with his own. He laid his palm on the warm screen, static crackling against his skin. Too soon, Vic turned back to the blackboard and announced that next week he would be back to explain string theory. Sam sat back on his heels, prepared to wait, but the screen went dead and _she_ was back. He switched her off and went into the bathroom to splash water on his face.

Where had that dream come from? Why would he think he had raped Gene? It was his brain overworking, he decided. Trying to explain getting crammed in the boot and driven around and the new voice he was hearing. Gene didn't need an excuse to rough him up, did he? Except he'd always had one before… Gene didn't even punch crims without a reason. Sam toweled his face and went to put his shirt on. He'd go see Gene. That was probably the best thing to do. Gene was just stressed from the attack, and he was taking it out on Sam. That's all it was. Or else, he was attracted to Sam, couldn't handle it, and was roughing him up instead. Well. If that were true, then Hunt had had a hard on for him from the start. He finished dressing and left, ignoring the feeling that what he was doing was as far from wise as possible.

He grabbed a cab on the lonely corner and gave directions to the Guv's house. It was past one in the morning, but he had no concerns that the man would be asleep. The cabbie's radio was playing Chet Baker. Sam tapped along on his knee. Between trumpet blasts, someone called his name, sounding desperate and angry or maybe just one or the other, but it wasn't strong enough to overpower the music, and when Chet started on a long riff, the voice died out altogether.

He knew Gene wouldn't tell him who had raped him, even if it was he who'd done it. Maybe especially if it was him. He'd have to trick it out of him somehow. Just so he could be sure. Sam twitched at this thought. Of course he was sure. He wasn't a rapist. He would never…to Gene. No. Not possible. But the looks, the strangeness… He'd get Gene to talk. Who was he going to trust if not Sam? It was only a dream. He'd seen the bruises and put himself in the mind of the attacker. Profiling. Just primitive profiling. That's all it was. Never mind that he had a hard on from it. It didn't mean a thing.

It had started raining. Sam got soaked just running up to Gene's door. He peered through the window and saw Gene sitting at the table with a sandwich, a glass, and bottle of Jack beside it. He knocked. He still didn't know what he would say. "Did I rape you?" didn't strike him as an intelligent opening line. He was sorting it out when Gene opened the door. Sam was assailed with the linger scents of a fry up and the dulcet tones of Roger Whittaker coming from the small radio on the countertop.

"What do you want?"

"Is the missus home?" Well. That hadn't been one of the options. But it was a good one.

He hesitated, and it reminded Sam of what teachers and parents taught children—never tell anyone you are home alone, even if you are; never let a stranger into your home. Gene's silence was enough of a sign that a negative answer was not necessary, but it came anyway, which also surprised Sam, because, following this line of comparison, he was expecting Gene to say the Missus was upstairs, waiting for him to get back to bed.

"At card club. Why?" Gene said.

"I wanted to talk to you without anyone around."

Gene stepped back and allowed him in, though he did not look pleased about it. Not that Sam could blame him, given that he had to know what Sam wanted to talk about. Plus, he was soaked through, water dripping off every bit of him.

"Don't move." Gene fetched a tea towel and handed it to him. Sam stood on the entry rug and wiped himself down. He handed the towel back. Gene gestured him in further and went to lean against the counter.

"So talk."

Sam closed the door. "This bloke who hurt you…"

"_Hurt_ me? Christ, Tyler, women get hurt. Men get…"

"A kicking? The shite knocked out of themselves?"

Gene shrugged. He looked elsewhere and nodded, jaw set as if he was stopping himself from adding anything to Sam's list.

"Do you know who it was?"

"Told you it were a few guys."

"You going to go after them?"

"Don't see how that's your business, Tyler."

"If somebody did that to me, I'd be spending all my time plotting ways to kill him."

"I've got more important things on my mind. Like real crimes. I don't have time for revenge fantasies, Tyler." Sam noticed that Gene did not correct him this time on the number of attackers.

"Or maybe you're a pervert." He realized he was echoing Test Card Girl's words, and wondered if maybe she was right, and they were all perverts in some way.

"Think you know I am." There was a challenge in Gene's voice.

"I don't mean what happened in the shower today. I mean maybe you like being touched up. But you can't say anything about it, so if somebody forces you, you like it. Except it's not really forcing, is it? Because you want it. Bet I could touch you right now, Gene. And you wouldn't stop me."

Gene was glaring, and Sam knew he was putting his life at risk, and for what? If Gene didn't want to tell, why should he push him? But Gene hadn't moved, and for a moment it was exactly like in the dream. Sam came forward and rested a hand on Gene's hip. He pushed his fingers under Gene's shirt and touched cool skin.

&lt;&lt; _He's a fighter, my Sammy._ &gt;&gt; His mother, encouraging him through the radio.

Before Sam could lay the other on the opposite hip, he was on the floor, Gene standing over him, glaring, fist raised. Sam rolled out of kicking range. He stood up and brushed himself off. He kept his head bowed so Gene wouldn't see his smile. That proved it—there was no way his dream was true. He hadn't hurt Gene. He couldn't. Gene was stronger than him. He'd never be able to overpower Gene long enough to rape him. He was a fool for thinking so. A conceited prat.

Then he looked up and saw how Gene was staring at him, and the way he had picked up the empty bottle and was holding it like a bat, and the sound came out of him before he could stop it. "Oh." It was a breath given focus into a single, short exhalation, nothing more. And another, slightly louder. "Oh." Perhaps in response, perhaps by coincidence because he was still barely audible, Gene's wrist twitched and caused a nearly imperceptible vibration of the bottle.

&lt;&lt; _And a good boy. Always such a well-behaved, polite boy._ &gt;&gt;

For a moment there was only this, the two of them watching each other. And his mother's voice. Then Sam dragged himself over to the table and sat down. After a moment, Gene put the bottle down and sat, too. Gene finished his whiskey. He didn't gulp it, and he didn't offer Sam any. Outside, the rain had not let up. Sam clasped his knees and tried to remember why he couldn't remember. If Gene had said Sam had done it, he would not have believed it. But Gene did not say a thing. And so Sam had no space for doubt.

He kept his eyes on Gene, who did not look at him, but also did not seem to be avoiding looking at him. When he raised the glass to his lips, his hand did not shake.

Watching this, Sam understood. Gene was going to kill him. And he felt suddenly, unaccountably, calm.

Thunder crashed, shaking the windowpane. Gene set the empty glass down.

"You should stay here tonight. We have a guest room."

"I couldn't ask that of you."

"You going to make me beg you to stay out of the rain? I got a room; you got a need. It's not a difficult decision."

Sam closed his eyes, but a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek anyway. It embarrassed him, coming after the wave of calm.

"O.K."

Gene got up. "Christ, Tyler. It isn't worth tears. It's just a pull-out couch. Still—a bit nicer than your trap, I should think." He lumbered out of the room. Sam forced himself to follow. They went up a set of stairs, past a bathroom, and into a tiny room just behind it. Gene turned the light on. As promised, there was the couch. Gene started preparing it as Sam watched. He knew he should run, but his feet were rooted. He fixated on Gene's waist where his shirt had separated from his trousers and offered glimpses of skin as he leaned over the mattress to put the sheet on. He wanted to touch him, to line his fingers up with the finger-shaped bruises and see if they matched.

"I'm not going back to Hyde, am I?" he said.

Gene raised his head, looking over his shoulder as he hovered off-balance over the mattress. "Not unless you fancy being a staff of one." He snapped the last corner of the sheet down and stood back, slapping his hands together. "Well. If you need anything, get it yourself. I'm going to bed."

He left, and Sam sat down. Gene had made the bed with military efficiency. Bounce a coin off it and all that. He stared at the open door, across the landing to the Hunts' bedroom. Gene had not bothered to close his door, perhaps out of habit, and was walking casually back and forth between closet and bath, discarding clothes and gaining pajamas. He wandered a bit, circling with a toothbrush hanging mostly untouched from his mouth, idly scrubbing his teeth from time to time. All of this Sam observed with the same fascinated interest as someone watching a tiger prowling its enclosure in a zoo. There was the feeling of being somehow better off than the tiger, having space and freedom, but when Gene stopped and turned towards the door, staring into the dark with his green eyes, a chill fluttered through Sam—the same chill that reminded a man that the beast is not caged for its good but for the man's. And that the beast is never oblivious to the creatures who ogle it day in and day out. The door closed and Sam stared at it until the light creeping from beneath went out. And then he kept staring until his eyes grew heavy and he couldn't stare anymore.

He pushed himself up and walked towards Gene's room. He stood outside it, listening. He heard nothing. No snoring, no pacing, not even the rustle of a book's pages being turned. He touched the doorknob, knowing that if he opened it he would find Gene awake and immobile as Sam had been.

_"…of course what you have to remember when you hurt someone, is that eventually they'll hurt you back. You can spend the rest of your life waiting, watching…. Is that any way to live?"_

He had not hurt him. He was incapable of it. And yet. He stepped away from the door and stood again, fingers still stretched to touch it. And on the other side, silence.


	9. Stripped

  
Gene stood in his bedroom facing the door, loosely holding the cricket bat he and the missus kept under the bed. He didn't know how long he'd been there, having moved into position when he heard Sam walking in the hallway. Now Sam was out there, and Gene's feet were wearing an imprint in the carpeting. He'd wanted to keep his gun in the nightstand, but the Mrs. Genie hadn't allowed it, so the gun stayed in a safe in the drawing room. When he'd made it clear that he was not sleeping without something nearby, she'd suggested the bat. He'd agreed, as he felt good in his swing and he was satisfied, though he did not tell her, that no bastard would come into his sanctuary without one hell of a fight.

Not that Sam was entitled to that treatment. Not yet. Gene watched the doorknob for a sign of turning.

He thought of his father pulling him out of bed by his hair and shoving him down the stairs, slapping him about the head and shoulders all the way into the kitchen and ordering him to do a fry-up at two a.m. and be quick about it and top up the whiskey in his glass and quit looking at him like that unless he wanted another slap. He fed the bastard and emptied bottles down him until he passed out. Then he dragged him to bed, tossed him in beside his mother, went down to wash up the best he could, and tried to be out of the house before the waste of space was up because if he wasn't, he'd wake Gene, red-faced, fists flying, screaming at him for eating up all the sausage and didn't he know _meat didn't grow on trees _because the piece of shite never remembered anything between coming home from the pub and waking up, and the one time Gene told him, he just got hit more, so he bit his tongue and apologized for being a selfish, meat-grubbing, son of a bastard.

He'd allowed—no, forced because he wouldn't take 'no', would he, when Sam tried to excuse himself out of it—Sam to stay for a reason, but he couldn't think what it was. Wasn't the same as putting Sam in the boot for his own protection. He knew that he couldn't let Sam out of his sight now that Sam had figured out what he'd done to his guv. He figured the poofter would fall apart. Didn't know yet if he wanted to stop a breakdown or watch it.

Instinct, that's what it was making him keep Sam close. Good old Gene Genie instinct. Never questioned it, did he?

Never until Tyler.

The floorboards were creaking Sam's retreat.

Gene strode towards the door, bat in hand, and flung it open. "Tyler." Sam turned, caught halfway between Gene's room and the guestroom. It was too dark to make out his expression, but Gene saw the tentative step towards him and his abrupt stop.

"What are you...what are you doing with the bat, Gene?"

Gene hefted it, turned his wrist to rotate it, looking as he did this, and realized that he didn't know. He may have had something in mind when he charged the door, but now that he was on the other side of it…he didn't. His memories were confusing him—he was blending Sam—the Sam who attacked him, who he still could not think of as _his_Sam--with his father and creating someone he didn't know, someone who was not this man looking at him with wide eyes and a placating, hesitant hand hovering in the air a few safe feet away.

"Gene?"

Gene lowered the bat and squinted at Sam. He should say something, probably, about how this was his house and if Sam didn't know how to behave as a guest, meaning if was going to go psycho in the Gene Genie's home, and be hovering outside doors where people were trying to sleep and such, then Sam would have his arse kicked.

"Gene, do you want to talk about…"

He wanted Sam to stop saying his name so much.

"No."

"I think that I hurt you, Gene. And I don't remember. If I did what you say…"

Sam had started forward, reaching for him, as if he'd stopped thinking of the Genie as a man with a bat and started thinking of him as something to be petted. Gene leaned away from him. It was not a large movement, but the point was made and Sam stopped his approach.

"I haven't said what you did. You've seen me in my altogether. You want a story to go with the picture, you write it yourself." His teeth clashed, and he reminded himself that he was the one with the bat; he was the one who got to be righteous this time and he didn't owe Tyler a bloody thing.

"I've a right to know."

"Says who?"

"I've an entire night that's a blank. You could fill it in a little."

"So? You know how many nights I don't remember?"

"This wasn't from a drinking blackout, Gene." Sam's voice cracked, and so did Gene's resolve to stay angry with him. He let a sliver of pity creep into his response.

"Let it go, Sam. You don't need to know."

"Gene."

"If you knew what you did, you'd beg me to kill you. You'd throw yourself under the Cortina or make good on your threat to jump off the CID." There. Let him take that for comfort. He didn't need to be hashing through it again. Poncey bastard was probably just asking for paperwork reasons. Well, there'd be none of that.

"Gene…" Sam was wavering, and Gene thought he would go against the wall and sit, but he managed to keep upright. "How'd you know about…my trying to jump?"

"What? You think Cartwright didn't tell me? I'm not going to give a bloke who's already soft in the head and prone towards overreacting a reason for cashing it in."

"Well. If this is your idea of reassurance… I still might throw myself under a bus." He had gained his stance again, and squeezed his hands against the back of his neck, but he looked anything but confident. Gene remembered how the Mrs. Genie always took an interest in Sam. Always wanted to know how he was faring. She'd offer him tea.

Gene was neither a pansy (like Sam), nor a woman, so there'd be no offer of hot beverage from him. He made due with reassurance, which, looking at Sam and his baby face, he felt obligated to provide. Tyler would probably have a fancy psychological name for what he was doing, comforting his attacker, but Gene didn't give a fairy's arse for it.

"You're a good detective, Sam. I need you on the team."

"Way to compartmentalize, Gene." The hands came down as Sam laughed softly. It barely sounded over the whir of the heating unit.

Well, if the bastard couldn't take empathy when it was staring him in the face… Gene took a breath, willed his anger down. "What do you want me to say? I feel you _on me_ all the time, feel you _inside_ me. I can't do my duties for the missus anymore without your smug face taking front and center in my mind. I cannot move without pain. I think the only reason I haven't killed you myself is the thought of getting near you makes me physically ill."

"I…" Sam's expression froze into one of pinched anguish. Gene wasn't used to seeing such a face on a man if he hadn't been punched.

"I were only joking, Gladys." Christ but Tyler could take things seriously, couldn't he? No—Tyler could tell when Gene was lying and when he wasn't. And he was looking at Gene now with that 'I know you' face of his, and it was Gene who had to look away.

"You got an erection from thinking of me?"

Gene shrugged. "You know it already, don't you?"

"From me or from me raping you?" They both started at the word. Rape. So they were giving it a name. Fanfuckingdandy.

Gene looked at the bat. "Do you fancy a game?" Gene didn't know why he said it, but once he did, it felt right. Felt better than having this conversation, anyway.

"What?"

"Wickets are set up in the garden. You be bowler. I'll bat."

"Gene, it's half three. And you're in pyjamas."

"If you're going to be a girl about it…"

Sam shrugged. "Alright."

Gene bounced down the stairs. He tried not to wince. Sam followed, slower. It had stopped raining, but the grass was wet, and Gene didn't have his shoes on. He grabbed the ball from a bucket near the door and tossed it to Sam.

"You got any lights? I can hardly see you."

"Just throw towards my voice." Gene took up position in front of the wickets. He could see Sam's outline with the light from the kitchen behind him. He knew by the time the ball got to him, it would be consumed by the night. They were both playing at a disadvantage. The first pitch went high. Gene went to get it and tossed it towards the light. The second pitch went wide. By the third pitch, Gene was wishing for a dog to go fetch the ball for him. On the fifth pitch, Sam accidentally hit a wicket. He did a little dance on the patio. Gene couldn't help smiling as he watched the hopping silhouette. If they could do this, and not think about anything else, just this and solve a case or two during the day, that would be fine.

"Come on, Gladys, you've got two more." He sliced the bat through the air on a few practice swings.

"Gear up, old man—now I know where you are, you're doomed," Sam said cheerily. Seconds later, the ball whizzed by Gene's ear. He smashed it with the bat, sending Sam diving for cover.

"Mind who you're calling 'old', Tyler."

Sam didn't say anything, and the ball didn't come back either. Gene stood, looking at the sky. The clouds were rolling over slowly, blocking out the three-quarter moon. He and the missus played night cricket all the time when they were young. Him pitching, her batting; the only contact in the game came not from bat and ball or ball and wicket but from him rushing her and tumbling to the ground as she scolded him, saying that he was taking his title of bowler far too literally. He didn't reckon Sam would be doing that and felt, almost, disappointed, although if it was for Sam not knowing how the game should go or for the games he and the missus no longer played, he couldn't say.

"Tyler? You still with us?" He shouted into the dark.

"What if I did something else?" Sam's voice floated towards him.

"Like what?"

"I don't remember anything from around 7pm when I was out to the waking up the next morning. What time did I…hurt you?"

"Around midnight." Gene righted the knocked over wicket. Sam would never know…

"And then I went home?"

"You were home." He tamped it down until it was standing straight.

"I was home? What were you doing there?"

"I went to check on you. Won't be doing that anymore." It was like talking to the radio, having Sam's voice come at him from the dark like this. He wondered if this was what it was like for Sam when he was babbling at his appliances. No wonder the poof was mental.

"So, after…I went to bed?"

"You left. I didn't stay for you to come back."

"Where did I go?"

"How should I know? You going to pitch or not?"

"I could have done something then. Or in the time between 7 and 12. We should check for witnesses—get statements from the neighbors as to my comings and goings."

Gene sighed. If Tyler was in full detective mode, there went the rest of the game. He'd have the Guv getting Chris out of bed to go through files next.

"Right. So—you want me to have Cartwright go door to door with your photo to see if your psycho self had a big night out?"

"If I did something…"

"You did do something. Me." He cringed. Unfortunate word choice, there. "We've no other crimes reported from that night. Now, if you want to get fitted up, I can tell Carling to pull a random unsolved. If not, then stop thinking so much. You're making _my_ brain hurt."

"There's something…"

"There's nothing." Gene swung the bat against a wicket and hammered it down. Superman couldn't through hard enough to knock it over now.

"Guv…"

"Sam." Gene knew what he was doing, throwing out 'guv' like that. He was putting up a professional distance in case Gene had to arrest him. He thought it would make it easier, taking the personal out of it. Stupid git, not understanding that two men couldn't be closer than cop and cop.

"Do you honestly think you did something, or are you just scared you did? You never considered until tonight that you were responsible for me. Now you've got that figured out, you're ready to take on any crime there is, aren't you? Let me tell you something, Tyler. You are no criminal mastermind."

Gene saw the dark form coming at him and thought that maybe Sam knew the game he and missus played after all, but he was shouting, too, and it wasn't right.

"Why don't you leave me alone? You're scaring my mum!"

Gene braced himself for the impact and got an arm up. He used Sam's inertia against him and knocked him aside. Sam lay on the grass, gasping. "What'd you do that for?"

"You lunged at me."

"I did not."

"You didn't say I was scaring your mum and spring at me?" Gene's voice lifted a notch in its incredulity.

"No."

"Have it your way. You fruit bearing psychopath."

Sam pushed himself up to sitting. He was scowling like a teenager. "Whatever you say. Got any tea?"

"You want me to make you tea now?" Gene stared at him in disbelief. Portentous git.

"I can make it."

"In the kitchen, then."

They went in together, Gene carrying the bat and dropping the ball back into the bucket. He propped the bat inside the door and left Tyler in the kitchen with the instructions to 'act like a detective and find the bloody tea yourself'. He got into the shower himself and noted, with a certain amount of satisfaction, that he was not aroused in the slightest even after the tussle. He got out quickly, pulled on a pair of sweats and a vest and went back downstairs. The dawn sun was clawing at the windows, trying to illuminate the room. Sam was setting out the tea service on the table. He was using saucers and cups, which meant he truly had played detective to find those in the back cabinet. Gene sat down and watched as Sam played mother.

"The missus' card club goes into the night, doesn't it?" Sam said. He held the sugar out.

"It's in York." Gene spooned two cubes in.

"Oh."

"She's gone most nights."

"Must be hard, being on your own." Sam offered the milk. Gene declined with a motion.

"I never cheated on her."

"I didn't say you had." Sam poured milk into his own cup.

"You were implying." Nothing got his hackle up like people saying he cheated on the missus. Just because he liked his drink and he let his hand wander to a knicked prozzie's bottom on occasion, it didn't mean he was the type to cheat. Even his father hadn't cheated. He was at least as good as that bastard.

"I only meant it must be hard because you don't cook much and I know you don't like eating alone. But if your mind went to cheating…"

"I'm a man, ain't I? But I never acted on it."

"Well, bully for you." Sam adopted a false posh tone and rolled his eyes.

Despite this, Gene sensed a bit of hurt in the answer. And if someone thick as him saw it… "What? You want me to?"

"Rather have you kiss me than kill me, Gene." Sam said this while looking at his cup, but he raised his eyes and a distant cousin of a smile attempted itself for a split second.

"Never thought about cheating until you, Sam," Gene said, finally. He seemed to be having the same problem keeping eye contact. He sipped the tea for something to do and burned his tongue. When he put the cup down, Sam had reached across the table and set his hand over Gene's. Gene stared at it. So did Sam.

"I think my missus is of the Sapphic persuasion." He didn't know why he said this, but it felt o.k. telling Sam. He was just barmy enough not to judge either of them for it.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think she's at card club, Sammy."

Sam squeezed his hand, his whole expression one of patience and sympathy. It was enough to make a man ill. "How long have you thought…?"

"A few years, maybe. I don't know, really." He extracted his hand. "I'm not… I won't cheat on her, Sam. I took my marriage vows seriously. I won't leave her. I won't hurt her."

"And if she's hurting you?"

"Won't be on purpose. She wouldn't do that. But she's put up with enough from me that I guess I can't play high and mighty about it, can I?"

"Gene…" Sam looked like he was going to touch him again or, worse, get up and hug him, so Gene plastered a glare on and Sam slumped in the chair.

He was relieved when someone knocked on the kitchen door. Gene opened it to find two plod on his step. He didn't recognize them.

"You hear of using the phone?"

"Sorry, sir. We're not from CID. I'm Officer Silver; this is Officer Carew. We're from Hyde PD."

"And of course, you know me." A third man pushed his way through the officers into the house. He stopped at the table, one hand on his hip and surveyed the layout. Sam sat up as if he had been silently reprimanded for bad posture, Gene noticed with a smidgen of annoyance.

"Don't recall inviting you in, Morgan," Gene said. He had a hand on the man's elbow and was ready to boot him out.

"Don't need an invite. Got a warrant." He produced it with flair from his inside jacket pocket. Gene snatched it and started reading. Utter gobshite with an official stamp.

"You are fucking kidding me." He crumpled it in Morgan's face. Morgan extracted it with his thumb and forefinger as if Gene's touch had infected it. He gestured the officers forward.

"They trying to fit you up again, Guv?" Sam said. This time, Gene knew that Sam was using the title to prove to this interloper where his loyalty was now. Right here where it belonged, with the Gene Genie. He protected his men, the Gene Genie did. He protected his…

The officers had converged on Sam, each taking an arm and raising him up. Silver produced a pair of cuffs and pulled Sam's arms behind his back. The double click as they caught his wrists was the loudest sound in the room. Sam looked from one to the other, then at Gene, his eyes growing ever wider.

"Samuel Williams," Morgan said, "You are under arrest for the suspicion of the murder of Victor Tyler and the blowing up of Hyde PD…"

"Hold on, his name's Tyler, not Williams," Gene said, but Morgan ignored him. "You're knicking the wrong man." Gene got in Morgan's face, but he might have been invisible for the effect it had.

The reading of the rights continued, but Gene didn't hear them, as he had turned from Morgan and was occupied in watching the color drain from Sam's face and watching his knees buckle until Officers Silver and Carew weren't just forcing Sam to his feet, but were actually serving as crutches to keep him upright.

Morgan nodded towards the door.

"Where are you taking him? You don't have a station anymore." Gene asked, stepping between the officers and the door before they could drag Sam out.

"We're using an interim police station. I'm sure he'll find it quite cozy. You'll be notified in the morning…" Morgan said.

"What evidence do you have?"

"Plenty." Morgan pushed against Gene's chest, and Gene told himself that he stepped backwards because Morgan hit a bruise. He recovered quickly enough to grab his shoes and coat and follow after them.

"I'm afraid you can't come with him. Someone will contact you in the morning," Morgan said.

Gene's hand fell on the bat. He picked it up and swung. It cracked against Morgan's knees, and the bastard fell onto the linoleum floor. Gene tossed the bat. It clattered as it landed. Carew and Silver froze, waiting for orders from their fallen DCI.

"What about now, you smug piece of shite?" Gene stood grand, looking down at Morgan.

"Arrest him."

Carew put the cuffs on as Morgan dragged himself to his feet. Gene grinned at him and got a fist in his stomach in return. He coughed and kept smiling.

"Don't forget my shoes and coat, son," Gene said to Carew. He trotted out the door, leading the parade to the car. He noticed that no one had bothered to read him his rights.

He crowded into the backseat, taking the middle with Sam on one side and Silver on the other. Sam was shaking. Gene leaned in to whisper that he would take care of everything, but found that Sam was already talking.

"Silver and Carew, they're from Robert Louis Stevenson's stories, too. Just like Hyde." His voice disappeared into a sick laugh, which further deteriorated into a cough.

"Would you put my coat over his legs?" Gene asked Silver. "He's not well." Silver, whether from fear of the Gene Genie's reputation, or because deep down he was a decent guy, tucked the coat around Sam's legs.

"Thank you," Gene said. His bare feet vibrated with the floor as the car gained speed.

With a bit of stretching and a lot of fidgeting, he wedged his hand behind Sam's back and squeezed one of Sam's hands. It hung limply in Gene's grip.

"Don't worry, Sammy. We'll get it sorted."

Sam didn't say anything, just kept cough-laughing until even Morgan turned around from the front passenger seat to stare at him.


	10. Kept Men

  
Illness did curious things to a person. Made him see his mum and the Guv at the same time, for example. Sam hadn't understood, at first, how the two of them were sitting side by side next to him as if they pulling double duty on bedside vigil. They didn't speak, hardly looked at each other, which Sam thought was uncharacteristically rude of his mum, and downright out of sync for Gene, who hadn't aged a day that he could see. Might be something to a diet of booze and bacon after all. They spent all their time staring at him, and he talked to both of them because it was wonderful to be awake, and home, and he'd be well soon, just had to get out of bed, fight the fever off and get up. Fit as sunshine, he'd be. Just you wait.

The doctor walked in, and they all three looked at him expectantly.

"I'm afraid he's contracted an infection," the doctor said.

Sam tried to tug the man's coat to get him to turn around and address him. Hello? Patient awake. Don't act like I'm not here…

The doctor focused his talk towards Gene and Sam's mum.

"We've given him antibiotics…"

"Is it from the machine getting switched off last week?" his mum said. She wrung her hands in her lap.

"No, we, fortunately, didn't see any direct effects of that…on his body, at least. His mind…who's to say until he wakes up?"

"My mind's fine, you prick," Sam said. He glanced at his mother, instinctively waiting for a scolding. It didn't come.

"He were out in the rain," Gene said quietly. His own hands were clasped on his knees, and he stared down at them. "Shoulda got him into dry clothes." He glanced up at the doctor, then quickly down again. "I weren't thinking."

"It's never been proved that weather causes illness," Sam said. He was ignored all around. Well. If waking up was going to be like this, he might as well go back to sleep.

"I'll just check his vitals, and then he's all yours again."

The doctor turned around. Morgan. The breath in Sam's throat froze. Help. He couldn't push the word out. It clattered over his tonsils and wheezed to nothing. His body was heavy as lead. Morgan raised Sam's wrist and pressed two fingers against it. Sam twitched. He screamed for Morgan to get off him. For someone to help. Gene. Mum. They heard, God, they heard, after so long of not, they did, and they reached him at the same time. They reached out to him together, hands on his wrist. He felt them on him, but when he looked, he saw only one hand and two arms coming from it, one extending to Gene and one to his mum, and he stopped.

It was white, when he stopped. And gray and pink, too. Nothing in front of him, nothing behind. Nothing above or below. Nothing. He opened his mouth, meaning to scream, and instead a song burst out of him, a single note, long and powerful and reaching across the vastness with no obstacle to stop it from going on forever.

A blow from something unseen struck him in the chest. He sputtered. The colors faded. The song ended.

He returned where he started, in the room with mum, Gene, and Morgan looking at him. Nurses, too, now, all scurrying about, yelling things.

Sam blinked. No. His mum did. Her whole person disappeared and reappeared before him, as if someone had stuck her in a room on her own and flicked the light on and off, except instead of the light going out, she was. She came back, flickering, watching with tear-filled eyes as nurses converged on Sam with metal paddles and tore down the front of his hospital gown. Sam looked at Gene, who had moved to the foot of the bed and was staring at him with an expression so desperate that it made Sam scream for help, but Gene was flickering, too, on and off, off and on, Gene and mum, mum and Gene, both disappearing at the same time and returning together until the paddles hit him a third time and his mum didn't come back. The doctor and nurses poked Sam. He didn't bother answering. He stared at Gene and tried to remember if he'd ever seen him cry before. Never that he could think of, never like this, with heaving great sobs that bent him almost in half. He tried to turn away and couldn't. So he closed his eyes to give the man a bit of privacy. If he ever got to rights, he wouldn't tell anyone about it. No one needed to know.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a room without carpeting and damp cinderblock walls. He was tucked up in a cot, the blankets so tight around him that he couldn't move.

"Sam?"

He turned his head. Gene was there, sitting on a wooden chair beside him, leaning forward and looking a mixture of anxious and relieved. He touched Sam's forehead.

"Your fever's breaking. I thought we were going to lose you, Sammy."

"Where are we?"

"In a cell in Hyde's interim PD."

"Did I go to hospital?"

"Morgan wouldn't allow it. But I been with you the whole time. Trust the Gene Genie to get you well, Sam."

"And you did."

"Are you hungry? You ain't eaten in…"

"How long have we been here, Gene?"

"Us? Oh, two days or so."

"Or so?" Sam peeled the blankets back and tried sitting up. Gene got up to help.

"No windows. Only guessing, really."

"Morgan kept you two days? He's not going to charge you, is he?"

"I think he'll be chuffed to see the back of me. He's tried to send me home, but I've kicked up a fuss—and a few plod's arses, so he's left me be. I think he wants you to himself, Sammy, but I'm not going to let that happen. He'll have to do a bit more than send plods in."

"Gene, does anyone know we're here?"

"I don't know. This whole thing, it don't seem so official, like."

"What do you mean?"

"Plods ain't got uniforms for starters, aside from those two who arrested us. The rest are all dressed in civvies. They don't act… I don't think they're coppers."

"You think this is a…"

"I think Morgan's gone off his head and he's playing make believe. We're in a church basement, Sam. You smell that? Used to be a wine cellar, I'd reckon."

"Are you sure?"

"Heard a choir singing yesterday. Doing warm ups or something. Just holding out one note. It were…"

"Heavenly?"

"I were gonna say 'earsplitting'."

"Right."

"Most definitely—'earsplitting.' Now, you want to explain why everyone around here is calling you 'Williams'?"

Sam rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Morgan says it's my name. He says I've got amnesia and Sam Tyler doesn't exist. He took me out to a cemetery and showed me a grave. Sam Tyler's grave. He says that's where the name came from. He says my real name is Williams, and I'm working undercover at CID to stop you."

"Stop me from what?"

"Being you, I think."

"Is that what you're doing, Sam?"

"I don't know who Sam Williams is. I'm Sam Tyler and you're my guv. That's what I know."

"Just see you don't forget it."

"I've done enough harm to you…"

"Better things to worry about now, Sam."

"You have to go next time they let you. How else are you going to get me out if no one knows where we are?"

"Ray'll be on it."

"But he doesn't know…"

"Ray will be on it. You go back to sleep now. You need your strength up for what's next."

"What's next?"

"I don't know, Sammy. But I'm not thinking it's good."

"Guv, if Morgan's mad, then why haven't we knocked the doors down and gotten out of here?"

"Tried that. Got put back in before you could say 'fancy knickers'. We're in his game, Sammy. Not the other way around. Just have to figure out how to play it."

"They'll put you in cuffs if you keep beating on the plod, you know."

"If they'd quit asking me to leave, I wouldn't have to keep beating on them."

"King of logic, you are."

Gene nodded, the familiar prideful smirk taking up residence on his face. Despite the situation, Sam grinned right back. He yawned, and started the descent into sleep again.

When he woke, Gene was sitting against the wall, watching him.

"You scared I'm going somewhere, Guv?"

Gene gave a small, tight, smile, and shook his head. Sam closed his eyes.

When Sam woke again, Gene was gone. He got up, and when he stood, it felt like he hadn't been upright in days.

"You don't look good, son." Vic Tyler was sitting on the end of the bed, his long legs tucked up to his chin. "I've asked that Silver bloke to bring you some soup, but it seems he can't see me."

"I wouldn't be too surprised by that, Dad."

"No. I guess not."

Sam touched the wall to get his balance before taking a hesitant step towards the door. It was locked, but seconds after he rattled the knob, it opened and Silver was there, smiling politely.

"Hello, DI Williams. Glad to see you're feeling better. DCI Morgan is expecting you."

"It's Tyler. Where's DCI Hunt?"

"DCI Morgan had him moved to another area. Now that you're getting well, he thought you could benefit from some alone time so your rest isn't interrupted."

"Right neighborly of him."

"Yes, sir." Silver put an arm out to steady Sam as they walked together, down a wide hallway carpeted in red, towards a room at the end where he could see Morgan sitting at a desk. The walls of the hall were festooned in children's drawings of angels and men standing on hilltops with shepherd's crooks.

"Where's the Guv?"

"I'm right here, Sam."

"Where's _my_ guv?"

"Gene Hunt is not your guv, Sam. You work for me. You always have. I don't appreciate having to arrest one of my own men."

"I didn't do anything."

"I had so much hope for your future. You were going to make DCI one day."

"Where's the guv?"

Morgan flicked a hand towards Silver. "Take him back."

Silver stepped forward. Sam held up a hand for him to wait. He did. "DCI Morgan…you can't hold me here without evidence. You know that."

"We'll talk more tomorrow, Sam."

"You can't keep me here."

Morgan turned his attention to the papers on his desk, expression as placid as ever. "You have to let me go." Sam thrust towards him, but Silver drew him back and he allowed the officer to lead him away.

He spent the night listening for Gene. He heard clattering pipes instead.

When Silver came for him, Sam was rinsing his head in the basin. Silver waited as he toweled off and put his shirt on. He walked without assistance to Morgan's office, and waited for the man to look up from his desk so it could start again.

Sam lost track of how many times it started again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

"Where were you on October 15?"

"I don't know."

"You have no recollection? It wasn't that long ago." Morgan never got up as he questioned Sam. He did everything in the opposite way that Gene Hunt did. He sat when Gene would stand, he was still when Gene would move. He was quiet when Gene would shout.

"No." Sam refused to let his weariness show, in case it made Morgan think he was wearing him down. He wasn't. Sam could tell this man 'no' until the end of time.

"Well, that seems odd. Bright man like you, having no memory of an entire night."

"Sir." Sam never looked directly at Morgan unless he was told to. Morgan did not tell him to.

"Do you suppose, that you might have wandered over towards your old division, perhaps?"

"No, sir."

"And why is that, Sam? Don't you like us over here?"

"Haven't had a reason to wander over here since my transfer. Don't see why I should suddenly have one."

"Perhaps you'd heard Vic Tyler was in the area. I have acquired the case file from his disappearance from CID. You are noted as taking a 'particular interest' in Tyler. Interesting phrase, isn't it? 'Particular interest'."

Sam snorted. Readjusted his feet. Shoulder-width apart. Kept his hands locked behind his back.

"No? Well. Maybe it wasn't Tyler you were coming to see. Perhaps it was me. Let me tell you what I think. You came here to blow up Hyde PD, but Victor Tyler saw you, and you killed him."

He looked at Morgan, saw him smirking. "Why would I blow up Hyde PD?"

"Perhaps you wanted to blow me up."

"You? I'd just shoot you."

"These are not the words of an innocent man, Sam."

Sam stared at the wall behind Morgan.

"May I go now?"

"Yes. You may go. I'll see you tomorrow. I do look forward to these conversations. As, I'm sure, do you."

"Sir."

The questions never changed. Sam kept his answers to one word. Morgan was patient, but his tolerance had a limit. Sam discovered this when he returned to his cell one day to find that the chair was missing. Then the bed frame was gone. Next the blanket, leaving only the thin mattress on the floor. Interrogation became the highlight of his day because it was the only time he wasn't freezing. They took his belt and shoes so he wouldn't hang himself. He hadn't considered that, though he might hang them if he had the chance. Morgan had no evidence. If he did, he wouldn't be pressing so hard for a confession. Knowing this, Sam stopped worrying about what he had done that night. Whatever it was, it wasn't Morgan's business. He knew he had the power to end it. All he had to do was confess and he'd be whisked off to a court and dealt with. Executed, most likely, after the verdict came down. But he had not done what Morgan said, and knew that he hadn't. So he waited for the Guv to come blasting in on his horses and set him free. And while he waited, he practiced holding in his bladder for hours at a time because now they only let him out to pee twice a day. And he practiced standing without fainting for just as long and ignoring the pangs of cold that crept into his bare feet. And he practiced smiling and not letting the 'fuck you' in his heart bleed into his expression whenever they spoke to him. All in all, he kept pretty busy.

"Was your cover threatened?" Morgan had explained time and again about the Williams thing. Sam's real name was Williams, he said. Sam was working undercover to bring down DCI Hunt. Sam was Morgan's lapdog. Sam needed to snap out of it and remember his place.

Sam did remember his place. And it wasn't where Morgan wanted it to be. It was, however, the reason for their failure to communicate.

"I was not undercover."

"Hunt suspected, did he? So you blew up Hyde PD to get him off your scent. To please him. Tell me he told you to do it, and I'll set you free."

"Fuck. Off."

Morgan signaled Silver. "Take him back."

He saw Gene, once, as Silver escorted Sam back from the loo. The Guv was walking in front of Carew, easy as you please. Sam sprinted towards him on a rush of energy. Silver chased behind.

"Guv! You alright?" Sam hugged him without thinking.

"Fanbloodytastic," Gene said, but Sam noticed that Gene's arms were strong around him and he wasn't letting go. The officers pried them apart, and they continued on their separate ways. Sam looked behind to see where Gene was being taken, but he and Carew turned a corner and that was all he saw.

Silver hovered in the door of Sam's cell for a moment, and Sam waited to be told off for what he'd done, breaking out like that.

"They say Gene Hunt was a great man," Silver said, finally.

"He still is. Are they…are they hurting him?" He thought of Gene walking so easily in front of Carew, like a pet. Why would he do that? Bile rose in his throat. And the way Gene clung to him—and he to Gene—they would pay for it, and he had been stupid to let his instinct drive his actions. A right idiot.

The officer's lip disappeared behind his teeth for a moment, but he shook himself out of whatever he was thinking. "He's not my responsibility. You are."

The latch slid on the door, and Sam was alone again. Then he turned around and his father was there, looking sympathetic. This was the other thing Sam did to keep occupied. He talked to his dad. It made him forget the cold.

"You know, Dad, this is the most I've ever seen you. It's been… I always wished…"

"I know, Sammy. Me, too." Vic leaned against the wall. He was always leaning, casual as could be. He never paced, never ran his hand through his hair. He wasn't much like Sam.

"I wish Gene were here. You know, he'd like you." Sam began practicing deep squats. It was difficult, without a chair.

"He didn't like me when I was alive. Can't see as I've changed much."

"You stay now. And he stays, so. You've got that in common."

"That's not a hell of a lot, Sammy."

"I guess not." He stretched an arm over his head, curved it, and raised one foot to hover over the other.

"And, not to be the voice of reason or anything, but, uh, he can't see me. So…"

"But I wish he could." He hopped, switching in the air so when he landed his feet had reversed position.

"Then so do I."

A full day passed with no visit from Silver. Sam put it off as long as he could, but when he couldn't wait any longer, he wedged himself into a corner farthest from his bed and urinated against a crack on the wall, hoping it would drain away.

No toilet breaks meant no food, either, and he went to bed hungry.

Silver stuck his head in the next day, sniffed—Sam avoided looking at him—and left. He returned with a mop and bucket of warm, soapy water. He left Sam alone with them, and Sam cleaned the wall as best he could. When Silver returned, he offered Sam a small smile, though Sam couldn't say if he was pleased that Sam had cleaned the wall or that Sam had not drowned himself in the bucket—a fleeting consideration—as that would surely have cost Silver his job.

Sam was allowed to the toilets that day, but no one came with food or water. On his evening trip to the loo, he drank as much as he could from the faucet, and forced himself to urinate a second time before he opened the door and returned himself to Silver's custody.

The fourth day without food, Silver entered with a chair. He responded to Sam's greeting with a flicked glance towards him, turned, and marched out. He left the door open. This had never happened before. Sam remained where he was, standing near the back of the room, and watched it. If he were Gene, he'd have bolted the moment Silver was out of sight. But Sam was cautious. And anyway, he wasn't sure even Gene was Gene anymore. Just as he decided to venture a cautious step forward, an officer Sam had never seen before arrived carrying a small round table, which she set up beside the chair. Another added a pot of tea and a single saucer and mug. They worked briskly, neither speaking to each other nor to Sam, who continued standing in silence. They exited. Sam stared at the tea, trying to remember when he'd last had any. He was almost to it when Morgan appeared. Sam steeled his legs against stumbling backwards. It was the first time Morgan had come to the cells.

Morgan looked around, as if he were making a house call. Sam half expected him to say 'Nice place you got here'. Instead, he asked permission to come in. A useless formality, they both knew, but Sam nodded anyway. There was only one thing he would refuse Morgan; everything else was inconsequential. Morgan thanked him and stepped over the threshold. He took the chair and poured out the tea. "Do you mind?" he asked. Another formality. He was sipping before Sam could shake his head to the negative. "Oh…" He stopped, as if remembering something, and dug in his jacket pocket until he pulled out a crumpled packet of biscuits. He broke open the cellophane and, with great care, arranged them along the saucer's edge. They were pink. Sam began to feel ill. He wondered if he could sit, if Morgan would mind him sinking to the floor, or if he should ask, though that went against the farce they were playing—what host asked his guest's permission to do something? He kept standing. It seemed the safest decision.

"I understand you have not been eating. Is the food not up to your standards?"

So this was how he'd play it. Acting like it was Sam's decision not to eat.

"I'm sure it's fine." Sam was careful not to confirm or deny Morgan's implication with his answer. If he had learned anything, it was to let Morgan set the way.

"Well. You will eat something tomorrow, I hope."

Sam gave a noncommittal shrug.

"We don't want you to be ill, Sam. We do worry about your well-being, you know. I still consider you one of my men, even though you evidently do not."

"You do not exist. You are in my mind. I'm making you all up because I'm in a coma in 2006 and I need something to do to pass the time." He slammed his eyes closed so Morgan would not see the hatred. It would not help him. He opened them when the feeling was sufficiently buried.

"Very well. We are all figments of your imagination. In that case, you should have no problem telling me that Gene Hunt arranged the explosion. Just say it, Sam. Three words: Hunt did it. And you can go. This part of your dream will be over."

"What about Gene?"

"He doesn't exist; what do you care? Or, perhaps you could imagine him into another story. Why don't you do that now, Sam? Close your eyes and imagine Gene wherever you want him to be."

Sam closed his eyes.

"Are you with him, Sam?"

A rustle of pant leg as Morgan stood. Soon Sam felt Morgan's breath on his cheek. "You'll never be free so long as you are."

Sam opened his eyes to see Morgan walking out. As soon as the door closed, he flung himself at the table. He carefully swept the biscuit crumbs into his hand and, one by one, ate each with the particularity of an epicurean enjoying a fine French meal. When he finished, he painstakingly licked each finger clean and his palm, too, for good measure. He raised the mug and drained it. The pot was empty. Sam watched in dismay as a lone drop rolled out and splashed into the mug. He drank it anyway.

"I don't like that man," Vic said.

Sam looked up and wondered how his dad had figured out how to sit upside down on the ceiling. Clever trick, he thought. Really must try it sometime.

Sam spent the rest of the day ignoring the cramping in his stomach. When Silver came for him, he had to be helped to the toilets. On the way back, Silver pushed something into his hand. It crinkled. "Keep it to yourself, right?"

Sam didn't nod, didn't dare do anything in case anyone was watching. Once he was safely in his cell again, he tore open the packet and swallowed the driest, most delicious month-old chocolate he'd ever had in his life.

When Silver returned, Sam asked him where Gene was.

"Told you, he's not in my care."

"I want to see him." He had to know what Gene was doing, if he was still there. Why he was still there. Whether he'd stuck about for a lark when he could be getting out, saving Sam—if by not saving Sam he was acting on a revenge he claimed to not care about. Was Gene Hunt a lying hypocrite or a prisoner? This was what Sam wanted to know.

"I'll see what I can do."

Sometime in the night, or what Sam guessed was the night, he heard the door open, saw the light in his room went on, and the door close. Gene was standing in front of it, looking as confused as Sam. Then, seeing Sam, his expression cleared.

"You know, during the War, the officers used to reward the soldiers for a job well done with a bit of tail."

"Is that why they let you come?" Sam couldn't help glancing at the door. Surely Morgan would come through any moment…

"I don't know. You done something worth rewarding?" Gene wore a mask of bravado, but Sam could see he was wavering, not quite frightened but cautious, perhaps.

"No."

Gene stepped up to him, chest to chest, and met Sam's hesitant gaze with narrowed eyes. His head dipped, and he kissed Sam on the mouth. His movements were slow but insistent, and Sam responded in kind, noting that the Guv did not taste of alcohol, or anything really, except breath and water. So Morgan hadn't been sharing his tea with Gene, either. When Gene lifted his head away, he didn't move back, just as he never moved back after punching Sam, either.

"You don't…have to… They might not have meant for us…"

"Shut up, Sam."

Sam knew then that it wasn't true, what he had suspected about Gene hanging about on a lark but really free to come and go as he pleased. Gene was just as much a prisoner as he was. Needed contact just as much as he did. Otherwise, he wouldn't be fumbling with the buttons on Sam's shirt, trying to get them open. Sam should stop him, put his arm up to block him…or say no. 'Just say no'. But Sam was a prisoner, too, and he wanted it to happen. Besides, in the long run, it really wouldn't matter. It was like when they were trapped in the dumpster and he'd held onto Gene's foot the whole time. Certain behavior became acceptable under certain conditions. This, most definitely, was a certain condition.

Sam started to touch Gene, but stopped. He didn't have any right, with the rape, to put his hands on him. But he wanted Gene, and a blind-deaf man would know Gene wanted him from the way he was pawing him and making incoherent near grunting noises. Sam's belly pulsed, first away, then towards, Gene's fingers as they skirted over his torso, causing his skin to prickle, pushing the undershirt upwards. Sam held his hands out, palms up as if prepared for cuffs, but really he was waiting, open for anything Gene wanted. And yet, Sam spoke first.

"Gene, let me…" He wanted to say 'make love', but he'd never used that phrase for anyone, not even Maya, because of how girly it sounded, and logic told him that using it now would kill the possibility, so he said 'fuck you' instead. "Gene, let me fuck you," but he meant 'make love', and he hoped Gene knew it too, and would give him credit for not using the gayboy term for it. "Tell me what to do," Sam said. "I won't do anything you don't tell me. I want to get it right this time. The two of us." Gene glanced up. Their eyes locked, and Sam saw that he understood.

"Undo my trousers."

Sam did, opening the button and zip.

"Now yours." Gene's voice was heavy.

Sam obeyed. In moments, they both had their trousers and pants off. Sam wore only his undershirt. Gene pulled his own shirt off, so he was completely nude. The bruises from the rape had faded. There were no new ones that Sam could see, so whatever they had done to control Gene had been psychological, just as it was for Sam. He touched Gene's hip, where the bruise shaped like his hand had once been. He wished, perversely, that it were still there. Gene pulled Sam's hand towards him and placed it on his cock. He squeezed Sam's hand, showing him the proper pressure and the exact way to move from base to tip and back again. Then he let go. Sam leaned forward, head down, until the top of it stopped against Gene's shoulder. He watched his hand stroking Gene. Gene nuzzled against him and said his name. He touched Sam, wrapping his fingers around his prick. Sam jerked as Gene's calluses slid over his sensitive skin. Gene's breathing grew louder. Sam forced his head up, and dropped it again, this time onto Gene's neck. He mouthed the skin, their bodies now as close as they could be. He came.

Gene grabbed Sam's arms above the elbows and squeezed, harsh and unyielding, and for an instant Sam panicked. He'd be turned over, thrown down, and shown how it felt to be raped, to be Gene—his heart pounded; the pulse in his neck made it impossible to breathe. Then Gene's breath hitched, too, his hands relaxed, and the moment ended, changed and Sam understood it was desire, not a waking nightmare. Gene came, too. It splattered over Sam's hands, and they raised them up together, Gene sucking Sam's fingers clean, and Sam licking Gene's as they entwined with his own. He leaned up and kissed Gene on the mouth, tasting some of himself. Gene's tongue pushed against his, and he opened wider, letting it in. Hands went to heads, Sam's stroking, tugging Gene's long hair, and Gene's thumbing over Sam's earlobe. Sam breathed Gene's name into his mouth.

Gene broke the kiss, broke the touch. He looked at Sam, and then, without a word, turned around and lay on his stomach on the mattress. He rested his head on his forearms. Sam knelt between his legs. He worked his hands beneath Gene's hips and gently nudged him.

Since he had asked to fuck Gene, he had expected Gene to say something about always knowing Sam was a 'bloody fairy' or a 'nancy-arsed bender', and stop what they were doing dead in its tracks. This would be the prime time for it, as Sam adjusted his position, knelt to the mattress, and pushed Gene's bum apart with his hands so he could get closer, first with his lips and then, tentatively, his tongue. Didn't get much gayer than that. Gene didn't say anything, though. Instead, he spread his legs and offered a slight tilt of his pelvis in the direction Sam's prodding indicated. Sam licked until he was hard again, even without touching himself.

Sam pushed a finger in as gently as he could. Gene raised himself higher. Sam started fucking him with it.

"More."

Sam added another finger and worked until he could wiggle them around a bit.

"Sammy…"

"Almost, Gene…"

"Don't know how long we've got…"

Sam decided to believe Gene meant how long until Silver came back and not how long they actually had in the grand scheme of things. But either way, the immediate result would be the same. He pulled his fingers out and lined up his cock.

"Ready?"

Gene's groan answered him, and Sam pushed forward. It was a slow entry, encouraged by Gene's moaning and the odd 'fuck, Sammy' sprinkled in. He folded himself over Gene's back once he was inside him, and waited. Gene was sweating. Sam put his arms around him. Gene's heart was beating a dangerous pace. Sam's was, too. He could feel it thudding inside him, knew that Gene could feel it against his back. Slowly, his hips started to move. Gene was tight, and it hurt a little, fucking him, but it was warm, too, and Gene arched towards him, and Sam stopped being frightened that he was hurting him and allowed himself to go faster and harder, but always listening to Gene, checking that the noises he was making never turned into protests. Sam thought he heard the door open as he came, but when he turned to look, it was closed.

Even so, he and Gene cleaned up quickly. Having no water, they used tongues and hands and almost began fucking again, except Gene was certain it had been the door—he'd heard it, too, and he forced Sam to put his trousers on, as he did up his own and did up his shirt, but got the buttons wrong, so when Silver returned, it was to the sight of Sam buttoning up Gene's shirt for him. He waited, looking over their heads as Gene squeezed Sam's hip and pulled away. He left without a word. Silver followed him.

Sam was alone. He laid down. The mattress smelled of sex. He had the feeling he would never see Gene again.

They fed him the next day. He ate everything. When they took him to see Morgan, he confessed and then took it back, just to see what Morgan would do.

He sent him back to the cell and stopped the food. A day passed. Two. Three. Sam peed in the corner again and again and again. Silver brought a mop and watched him clean up, even though he was almost too weak to move.

Silver did not bring chocolate.

Sam sat down and waited to die. Then, the door opened and it wasn't Silver or Morgan.

"Sam Tyler?"

Sam looked up at the woman filling the doorway. She was regarding him with gentle but thorough appraisal. More from instinct than habit, he scrambled to his feet. She came towards him and laid her hands on his shoulders. Despite their chubbiness, her touch was unerringly delicate.

"Yes," he said.

She nodded and made to perform some type of motherly crush, pressing him to her bosom. He allowed this, as he was too surprised to do anything but, and he knew better than to interfere with a woman who was feeling matronly. "Aye, ye poor wee laddie. Got yourself in a right mess, didn't you, dear? Well, we'll see what we can do about you, won't we, now?"

"Who are you?"

"Your bloody saviour. Come on." She grabbed his wrist and together they went into the hallway.

"Where are the guards?"

"Don't worry. Sandra will have taken care of that. She's quite resourceful."

"Are you police?" Sam asked as the woman peered professionally around the corner before proceeding.

"Nope. You know where they're keeping Gene?"

"No. They never…" She pressed her hand to his sternum, and he stopped speaking.

"He's locked up in there, third door down. Cover me." She pulled a cricket bat from behind herself. Sam stared at it.

"Where did you have that?"

She smirked. "Benefit of a long skirt, son. Here."

Sam took the bat, gave it a few practice swings. He nodded. Together, they crept forward. The way was clear. When the woman reached the door, she pulled a pin from her hair and picked the lock. In no time, the door was open. Gene was standing inside, legs set at a fighting stance. When he saw the woman, his fists dropped. As Sam watched, the Guv's fierce expression turned into a smile and he moved forward as quickly as Sam had ever seen him, when not lured by the promise of a beer or whiskey. The woman was moving towards Gene, too, and when they met the only thing missing was the music.

When at last they stopped kissing, the woman turned to Sam, pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to dry it, and said, "Now that's the way to be rescued."

Gene came up, still grinning, and lightly smacked her bottom. "Oi, enough chatting, you're not done being white knight, yet. You know the way out?"

"Of course."

Gene looked at Sam and held his hand out. Without thinking, Sam placed his own in it. The woman looked between the two of them, her expression unreadable but not, Sam thought, condemning. Gene noticed, too, and yanked his hand back. "Bat, Gladys. Believe it's mine."

Sam slowly handed it over. "It's yours? From your house? How did..?" He looked at the woman.

"Maggie, you went through all the trouble of rescuing him and didn't introduce yourself?"

"Really wasn't time, Gene."

Gene sighed, his smile having settled into a look of permanent adoration. "Sam, this is Margaret, my missus."

She took Sam's hand. "Pleased to finally meet you, Sam. I've heard so much about you."

Sam nodded. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. There was no way he was going to compare to her. He felt like a fool, seeing the two of them together, for _ever_ thinking that Gene would consider being with him, even in secret. If first impressions were everything, this woman was amazing. "Pleased to meet you, too."

"Now let's go. Sandra is holding up the guards."

"Sandra?"

"A friend. I met her when I went to visit my mum."

"On a march, you mean." Gene said.

"Gene—how long have you known?"

"Just about forever, love."

They ran up a set of stairs, Margaret and Gene each vying for the lead and the thrill of checking around corners first. Sam's legs gave out on the second flight, and only the banister stopped him from falling. Gene ran back down and hooked Sam's arm around his shoulders.

"He alright?" Margaret said, already at the top of the flight.

"They haven't been feeding him proper. You go on. I've got him."

"It's alright, we're almost out."

Sure enough, the next door was the exit, and parked right outside was a rust colored car with a woman leaned against it, her arms crossed. "All clear," she said.

"Gene, Sam, this is Sandra."

Sam waved weakly. Gene nodded.

"We didn't see a single plod. How'd you distract them?"

"Challenged them to a drinking game for charity. Told them I was from the Ladies League." Sandra thumbed behind the car, and they all looked. There, hunched over chairs around a small table, were Silver, Carew, and others Sam had seen during his captivity, all either groaning or unconscious. "Seems they hadn't heard of the reputation of the League around here."

"Wait—you actually are with the Ladies League?" Sam asked.

"Of course."

"What about Morgan? How did you…?"

"That was me," Margaret said. "I got to his office once Sandra had the plod out and I told him I was there to discuss the church's next social. Took charts in and everything."

"He put up with that?"

"Let's just say it distracted him enough that he didn't notice the vase coming down on his head."

"Shit, I love you," Sandra said. Sam looked at Gene. His smile had dropped, but he quickly recovered and put his arm around Margaret.

"Don't we all," he said.

Margaret smiled at him and Sandra.

"If you were twenty years younger, I'd tell you to look into becoming a WPC," Gene said. Sandra and Margaret smiled at each other.

"What?"

"Sandra's already on the force, love."

"Oh. Well, good for you."

"She's a DCI."

"She's a what? No such thing as a WDCI."

"You're an MDCI?" Sandra asked.

"It's just DCI, love."

"Funny—same where I'm from. For everyone."

"So where is this place? Just women on the force, is it?"

"And men. Few dogs, too. For drug-sniffing and the like."

"Here I thought Hyde was the PD from another planet. Seems I was wrong."

Sam laughed. Gene thumped him in the stomach. Only the fact that Sam's arm was still around Gene's shoulders, held in place by Gene's hand stopped him from falling. The laugh turned to a cough.

"Gene, you be nice to that boy."

"It's ok, Mrs. Hunt. This is a love tap from him," Sam said.

"Gene…"

"Enough chatting. Let's go before somebody wakes up." Sandra unlatched the back door. Gene loaded Sam inside, and then got in himself. Sam tumbled onto the seat, righting himself against the opposite door. He looked over at Gene, whose smile had disappeared. He was watching Sandra and Margaret.

"She's a bit like you, don't you think?" Sam said.

"Don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do."

"She seems an all-right bird. Nice tits."

"It's like you're checking yourself out, Guv."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Good one, there."

"You think she and your missus are…"

"Sam."

Sam nodded. Right. So they were ignoring that, letting Gene act the gentleman and not broach the subject until his wife brought it up. Though, as Sam watched Sandra open the car door for her, and the tender way she caught Margaret's hair to stop it from getting caught in the door, he didn't know how much longer they could go on denying it. Sam looked over at Gene, saw the thin set of his lips, and recognized that he felt the same.

"You're alright now, boys," Sandra said. "So, you just settle back and get some rest and let me and Mags take care of ya's."

"I would kill for a bacon butty and chips," Gene said as they got underway.

"Right you are, love," Sandra said. "What about you, Sammy?"

"I could go for some chips, yeah."

"We'll stop in at a pub on the way home."

As she spoke, Sam's eyes became heavy. He struggled against the weariness, but it was a losing battle. Voices sang in his head, his mother, Aunt Heather, Maya, the coffee girl at the corner shop who knew his order without asking but didn't know his name… Sam closed his eyes and woke up.

It was white, as he remembered, and his mother was there, sitting beside him. He made a sound and she startled towards him. "Sammy?" No tears from her, she wasn't the type. "We've been waiting for you so long. I'll get the doctor…" She started to hurry out, and he choked out, "we?" A hand touched his wrist and he turned to his other side. Gene, older, grayer, _slimmer_, but still so very Gene, was looking at him, crying.

"Guv?"

"I knew it," Gene said.

"Knew what?"

"That I didn't imagine you. They said I did some damage, from the drinking, got to my liver, got to my brain, they said. Told me I made you up. But I knew that I… It is you, isn't it? Because I'll feel a right old fool if I've been sneaking in here all this time, getting your mum to let me stay even after, I swear it were an accident, Sam, I wasn't trying anything… and you're not…"

"Camel hair coat. Cortina. Ray. Chris. Annie."

Gene nodded, his face awash with tears.

"Thought the Gene Genie didn't cry."

"You tell anyone, you won't live to see another day."

Sam nodded, his eyes closing again.

"Sam? Don't…"

"Going back, Gene, not done with you yet, not done with 1973 yet." He forced his eyes open. "Besides, get the feeling you're not quite done with me. Take care of my mum, would you?"

The last thing he felt, as he let himself get tugged under, was Gene's chapped lips on his own.

He pushed himself through the place where there was no place, through the song with one note, and landed, again, on a vinyl seat vibrating gently against him and the smell of vinegar and chips assaulting his nose. Something warm was at his back, large and firm and smelling of Hai Karate and he smiled and sank into its comfort.

\----------------------  


**Epilogue:**

There were secrets a man kept, both to keep sane and to protect the ones he loved. Gene wasn't sure that 'love' applied to how he felt about Tyler—not a nancy, after all—but he was damned certain that he'd never be telling Sam how he'd bargained with Silver to save Sam. The man was bleeding pervert, and if Gene hadn't heard him talking to Carew about Sam, who knew what would have happened? But he did hear, and he threatened the bastard with instant death, and when that didn't work, he tried something else, which did work. It worked on Silver and it worked on Carew and anyone else who came by. Morgan was the only one not lining up for the Genie's throat. When Gene asked Silver why, the prat said Morgan didn't know—didn't even know Gene was still there. They were hiding him, he'd said; of course he could go anytime, but they'd kill Sam the second he set foot out the door. Then he told him they'd stopped feeding Sam, so Gene offered up a Curly Whirly he'd been saving and told Silver to give it to him, and he'd sucked him off a second time, just to be certain that he would.

But he'd never tell Sam that, couldn't act like he was hurting, like the captivity had been anything but a walk in the park for him. Like he wouldn't shoot Silver on sight if he ever saw him again. So they went to the pub, and he dragged Sam in, too because he wanted to be around people, even Margie and Sandra weren't enough, and he wasn't going to leave Sam alone. No one in the pub gave the sleeping Sam a second glance, aside from someone cracking that usually it was pub first, sleep after. They drank and ate and got back in the car with Sam and his chips wrapped up in paper.

"Oi, Tyler! You going to eat that?" Gene poked Sam, who didn't budge from his sleeping. "More for me, then." Tyler wasn't waking up. He knew he was tired, but…

"Oh, Gene, don't eat the boy's chips. You've had your own and half mine already," Margaret said in a good-humored reprimand.

"Too late, dearest. He deserves it, anyway. Sleeping through a pub visit like that." Don't let the worry show. Not ever. Gene had already plucked the bag from Sam's loose grip. He munched loudly, smacking his lips. Sandra threw the car into another turn, and, again, everyone and everything in it slid over. Gene found himself pressed into the door, and, as Sam was sleeping and unable to hold himself upright, he had landed against Gene. Gene checked the front seat to see if he was watched, and threw an arm around Sam, tugging him against his chest. Bits of chip crumb tumbled into Sam's hair as he continued to eat.

Sam began to stir, his first movement in minutes. Gene kept his arm firmly around him. Sam opened his eyes and looked around. "Guv?" he said, and sounded as if he couldn't believe where he was. He said the names of the women, too, with just as much astonishment.

"Hello, sleepy head," Margaret said.

"You slept through the pub, Betsy," Gene said. "Don't you fret, though. You got your round in."

"Gene lifted your wallet," Sandra said. "So if you're wondering later why you're short five quid…"

"Oh." Sam blinked lazily. Gene expected him to move away, but he didn't, if anything, he snuggled into a more comfortable position before snatching the empty chip bag away.

"You ate my chips."

"That's what you get for falling asleep, Gladys," Gene said. Margaret had moved closer to Sandra in the front. He stamped down on the jealousy bubbling inside him. He should be glad she was happy. He should be glad she and Sandra had saved him and that he and Sam were alive.

Sam sighed and closed his hand over Gene's, pushing it against his chest, and Gene found that he was not glad, but grateful.

He bent forward and laid a small kiss on the top of Sam's crumb-laden head.

**The End**


End file.
